


casual affair

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Casual Sex, Jealousy, M/M, Modern Era, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 12:00:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Ground rules,” says Grantaire as soon as they’re both in his bedroom and the door has clicked shut behind them. “No invasive questions, no unnecessary talking and no weird shit like asking me to call you ‘Daddy’ before you put your dick in me. I don’t want to deal with your kinks. This is just a casual fuck. Once we’re done, you get dressed and go.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	casual affair

**Author's Note:**

> this is the longest completed fic i've ever published and the first smut i've ever written. yikes! thanks to [becca](http://archiveofourown.org/justintimberlake), as ever, for all the help and moral support :-)  
>  **edit:** removed some insensitive phrasing and added a couple of apostrophes, but everything else is still the same.

The bar is run-down, seedy and unappealing but the drinks are cheap enough to make up for it. Besides, the place serves its purpose. Its dim lights create a flattering sepia haze over the customers’ features and the dark, quiet corners hide what prying eyes shouldn’t see. It’s not the sort of bar you go to for a catch up with an old friend, admittedly, but the clientele in bars like this aren’t here to have a few drinks or socialize. More often than not, they buy one drink and then leave with whoever is standing next to them when their glass empties. That’s just the way it works.

Enjolras doesn’t want a relationship. He doesn’t have the time or the patience to maintain one and that’s fine. It doesn’t concern him. He’s never really been the affectionate sort. But sometimes he gets these _urges_. Like he has an itch under his skin, his whole body yearns for someone else’s sweat-slicked skin writhing beneath him. And it doesn’t go away until he lets himself have it. Just for one night. That’s when comes to bars like these.

There are dozens of them scattered about the city, all tucked away in shabby alleyways and hidden backstreets. It doesn’t take him long to find one when the need for one sets in. After the first few times, he wised up to how the bars functioned. Get there too late in the evening and the place is like a shark pool at feeding times. Everyone is handsy and insistent by then, impatient to take whatever they can get. He’s learnt it’s best to go there straight from work. The suit makes him unapproachable and at six o’clock not many people are drunk enough to see past that. If they think you’ll play hard to get, they won't talk to you. People are looking for a quick fix in bars like these, not for a challenge.

Attraction doesn’t play much part in the grand scheme of things. Enjolras picks whoever catches his eye. Buys them a drink. Asks them if they want to get out of there. Drives them to the nearest motel, because he sure as hell isn’t going to take them home with him. Then they have sex in the dark so he doesn’t have to see their face. If he’s lucky, they’ll be broad and strong and push back against him, but he doesn’t complain when they aren’t and they don’t. An hour later they’ll be gone and he’ll forget their name and their face. Yet another notch on his bedpost that he won't remember. That’s how one night stands work. No one expects anything more than that. There’s no awkward morning after, no song and dance about exchanging numbers then pretending to want to stay in touch. It’s easy.

At least it is until it isn’t.

~

Enjolras notices him the minute he walks in. He’s got graceful long limbs, wild hair, a sharp jawline and soft blue eyes. He’s wearing leather, skinny jeans and a thin vest top that clings too tightly to his muscular torso. As soon as he’s through the door he goes up to the counter, throws down a handful of paper bills and orders himself a drink. “Something bitter,” he says with a voice like caramel cream. Every pair of eyes in the room settles on him hungrily. He is tonight’s fresh meat. Free game. It’s impossible not to want him.

The guy standing closest to him at the counter shoots him a predatory smile. He returns it easily, with a wink. This is the problem with working the peripheral parts of the bar instead of the counter. Less people bother you, but when the hot ones walk in and order a drink as soon as they’re through the door, whoever is closest gets to them first. That tends to be that. Enjolras sighs behind his glass as he watches the guy talk to the man next to him. They’re laughing together about some joke he didn’t hear, ignoring the way everyone in the room is staring. A few minutes later they’re sitting side-by-side in a dark booth, heads bent close as they exchange whispers.

He doesn’t usually bother watching people once they’ve paired off, but tonight Enjolras can’t seem to stop himself. An unfamiliar prickling sensation is building in his chest, and when he bristles at the way the guy from the bar slides his hand slowly up the other guy’s leg, leaving it to rest high on his thigh, he finally admits that it might be jealousy. He gets even more irritated when the touch isn’t immediately shaken off but is instead accepted, just like the lecherous smile had been at the bar earlier. Enjolras’s jaw clenches involuntarily, painful and hard. But he’s just being ridiculous. It’s not like he cares who he goes home with. Either way, he’s going to get laid.

And that’s the whole point of being here. Rolling his eyes at himself, Enjolras forces his body to relax again. Pulls his gaze away from their intimate talk at their table so he can turn to the guy sitting closest to him, only one table away. The one who’s been shooting Enjolras hopeful looks for the last half hour.

“Hey,” he says. “You wanna get out of here already?”

The guy shrugs, feigning nonchalance as he grabs his coat from the battered leather seat behind him. He tugs it on, drains his glass, and then they go.

~

Enjolras doesn’t realise how close this particular bar is to his home until he’s checking into a motel room on the same street as his apartment. He’s tempted to get back in the car, to drive to another one, but the man he’s with already seems impatient to get on with it. Doing this so close to where he lives his normal life leaves him feeling unsettled and awkward about the arrangement, but he supposes that can’t be helped. It’s better than not doing it at all. They get their key, find their room, strip off their clothes. Enjolras turns off the lights. In the dark, Enjolras is quick to position the guy on all fours on top of the cheap mattress, to fuck him hard against the thin linen sheets. All the while, the awareness that he drives past this place every day on his way to work plays at the back of his mind, refusing to leaving him alone. Having sex with a stranger here when his own bed is less than a hundred yards down the road leaves everything feeling a shade dirtier. More sordid. It’s distracting.

Enjolras jerks the guy off roughly. He can’t wait to get out of there.

When they’re done the guy thanks him breathlessly. Enjolras swallows down the nausea. He nods, gets dressed and drives his car through the deserted streets for hours, trying to shake the feeling of dissatisfaction in the pit of his stomach. He tells himself that his had been like every one-night stand he’d had after picking someone up at a bar. Quick, convenient, no strings attached. But it isn’t like the other times at all. Enjolras isn’t sated; he’s restless and unsatisfied. The tense energy he usually works out of his system with sex remains coiled tight in his stomach, feels almost as if he’s wound it tighter.

When he gets in, Enjolras stands under the faucet in his shower for half an hour, stroking himself off again under the hot stream. When he came earlier, buried deep in the guy whose name had he never asked, his orgasm left him like a sigh of defeat. It was hardly earth shattering. Sure, the lazy jerks into his fist he conducts in the shower aren’t much better, but at least they help to ease the ache inside him a little.

Then Enjolras crawls into bed. The soft cotton sheets welcome him warmly, comfortingly familiar against his bare skin. If he falls asleep thinking of curly brown hair and gentle eyes, he thinks nothing of it. No one needs to know.

Two nights later he goes out for a walk. Winds up back at the bar again.

~

Before now, he’s never been to the same bar twice. There are enough to choose from in the middle of the city that there’s no need to. That’s the first rule he breaks tonight as he takes a seat at one of the vacant booths in the bar. It’s early enough that the place is still quiet. He orders a drink, picking something strong enough to get him drunk if he swallows enough of it. That’s the second rule he breaks. He tries to avoid having drunken one-night stands if he can help it. They leave him groggy and disorientated the next day and, in his line of work, Enjolras can’t afford to be anything less than sharp. But tonight he knows that a large glass of whisky will make everything more palatable. When it arrives, he downs his drink in one.

“Easy there,” says an amused voice behind him, and then someone’s slipping into the booth next to him like they do this all the time. It’s the man from before: the one with the brown curly hair and the tight leather jacket. Up close, Enjolras can see he has pale green eyes, not blue, and stubble. It’s more distracting than it should be.

Enjolras reflexively swallows around nothing, then winces at the burning taste of alcohol at the back of his throat. He isn’t very used to it. The man is watching him like he knows it, this small smirk playing about his lips like he has Enjolras all figured out.

“Can I help you?” snaps Enjolras, irritated.

The man shrugs loosely. “I don’t know. Can you?” He props his chin up on his hands and playfully cocks his head to one side. It’s a challenge. “You were here, two nights ago. Watching me.”

“So?” Enjolras raises an eyebrow at him.

It’s met with a smirk. “So, are you gonna waste time staring at me like you want to throw me down on the table and fuck me, or are you gonna do something about it?”

Enjolras feels his mouth go dry. He stands up, grabs his coat and says, “Lets go.”

~

They don’t talk as they hurry through the streets, side by side and silent. All Enjolras knows about this guy is that his name is Grantaire. The barman had called out a goodbye to him as he left. Maybe he’s a regular, who regularly does this with every guy who looks his way on a quiet weekday evening. But if he is and does, it doesn’t matter a damn to Enjolras. Nothing about this guy matters as long as Enjolras gets to fuck him.

He’s not sure why, but he doesn’t like the thought of taking Grantaire to the same run down motel he went to last time. Doesn’t want a repeat of the bad sex, probably. Lucky for him, Grantaire seems to know somewhere different. He leads Enjolras through the streets quickly, no glancing back, as if he knows exactly how to navigate through the labyrinthine network of backstreets and alleys on this side of town. Enjolras doesn’t question him, follows along blindly. Neither of them have spoken since they left the bar.

It’s not until Grantaire is fitting a key into a lock that Enjolras panics.

“This is your place?” he asks as he watches Grantaire grapple with the door. 

“Sort of,” says Grantaire. “Share it with some friends. They should be out.”

Then he manages to get the key in the lock and twists it. The door swings open with a loud click. Enjolras hesitates for a moment at the threshold, reluctant to go inside. He doesn’t know this guy and this is hardly a neutral, semi-public place that’s easy to escape from if something goes wrong. The motel would be safer. No matter how bad the sex might be there, he should have insisted on going to the motel.

He’s about to say as much, but then he sees the way Grantaire is looking at him, all hunger and expectation and lust. It’s enough to make him break another of his rules. Without protest, he follows Grantaire inside.

~

“Ground rules,” says Grantaire as soon as they’re both in his bedroom and the door has clicked shut behind them. His bedroom only be described as cramped, small and messy. There are books all over the floor. His bed takes up most of the space in the room, which isn’t hard, and it’s a mess of blankets and pillows and papers. Grantaire moves the papers to the floor and rearranges the sheets so they look a little neater as he talks. Maybe he wasn’t expecting company tonight after all. “No invasive questions, no unnecessary talking and no weird shit like asking me to call you ‘Daddy’ before you put your dick in me. I don’t want to deal with your kinks. This is just a casual fuck. Once we’re done, you get dressed and go.”

“Right,” agrees Enjolras. “And no kissing.”

Grantaire laughs at that, a dark little chuckle that sends blood pooling to Enjolras’s gut. “What sort of ground rule is that? Sounds like a line from bad movies about sensible prostitution.” His familiar smirk settles confidently in place as Enjolras shrugs back at him, too embarrassed to admit that’s not far from the truth. “Fine. I can work with no kissing. Any other requests?”

“Not really,” says Enjolras. They’ve talked enough. He loosens his tie and tugs it off. The red silk flutters to the floor at his feet. Then he starts to unbutton his shirt. The movement must catch Grantaire off guard, because his lips part suddenly and a slight flush blossoms across his cheeks. Then Grantaire’s watching him shamelessly, eyes flickering between the expanse of pale skin on his chest and the nimble movements of Enjolras’s hands has he pulls the expensive material down his shoulders. Enjolras huffs, impatient, and throws his shirt at him. “Come on. Take yours off too.”

“But I was enjoying the show,” teases Grantaire. His eyes are darker now, almost black in the half-light, and they never leave Enjolras’s as he quickly yanks his own button-up off. He’s clumsier about it, hands fumbling over the buttons, but he’s also moving faster. Enjolras is fairly sure he hears the material tear in his haste. They’re both shirtless and standing several feet apart when Grantaire tugs his jeans down his thighs, followed by his pink and yellow briefs. He moans as the soft cotton material drags over his half hard cock, head rolling back to expose the long line of his neck. He looks ridiculous. It shouldn’t be as sexy as it is.

Enjolras growls, impatient. “Hurry up.”

He watches as Grantaire tugs the denim over his ankles and off, followed by his socks, and then climbs onto his bed. Then he’s on his knees, rummaging in his bedside drawer for a tub of lube. He slicks his fingers quickly and thrusts two inside himself, hurried and messy. It’s for convenience, not for pleasure. There’s no showmanship to it. Enjolras can’t look away.

As if he senses it, Grantaire turns around and cocks his head at Enjolras. “What, are you just gonna stand there?”

Enjolras doesn’t need to be asked twice.

He fumbles in his pocket for a condom then tugs his fitted trousers off, then his boxers, leaving them in a crumpled pile beside Grantaire’s discarded clothes. He undoes the condom packet with his teeth, rolls it over his cock with a quiet moan, and then he’s on the bed behind Grantaire. His cock presses against the back of Grantaire’s thighs and Grantaire rocks back against him, eager. He deftly pulls his fingers out of his ass and fists them in the sheets beneath him. Now he’s braced on all fours for Enjolras, panting and ready.

Every nerve in Enjolras’s body feels like it’s on fire, screaming at him to press forward and take. So he does. He grips Grantaire’s hips hard, hard enough to leave a hand-shaped bruise at the top of each thigh, and thrusts inside him in one long stroke. It makes Grantaire cry out angrily, more in pain than pleasure, but Enjolras doesn’t give him time to adjust. Just rocks back and slams into him again. This time he draws a broken moan from Grantaire’s lips. Satisfaction courses through him as he moves, faster and harder and deeper with every thrust.

Grantaire is already squirming beneath him. His arms have given up on holding him up, buckling under his weight. Now his chest is pressed against the mattress, face turned against one of the pillows, hands curled into tight fists in the sheets. He uses his position to spread his legs wider, to push back against Enjolras harder. Grantaire meets him half way each time Enjolras pounds inside him, pushing back until they’re both sweaty and moaning.

Enjolras can feel that he’s close. He slows his pace, holds Grantaire’s hips still, and leans forward to take Grantaire’s cock in his hand. “Fuck,” says Grantaire, rocking into the touch as Enjolras swipes his thumb over its leaking head. Enjolras tightens his grip, stroking him from base to tip in one long movement, and then sets a new rhythm for his own hips. They start to rut against each other again, but slower this time. Grantaire is groaning against his pillow with every slight shift.

He comes first, panting roughly against his sheets as his cock pulses in Enjolras’s hand. Enjolras speeds up, strokes him through it, moans as Grantaire’s muscles clench around him in ecstasy. He doesn’t last long after that. All it takes is a few sporadic jerks of his hips and then he’s coming too, hard enough that he’s barely registers riding it out. When he wills his eyes open again he’s laying bonelessly on top of Grantaire’s back, sweaty chest fitted neatly against the gentle curve of his spine, cock still buried inside him.

Enjolras pulls out, ties the condom off at the top and drops it to the floor.

Grantaire doesn’t spare a glance his way when he pushes himself off the bed, collects his clothes from the floor and pulls them back on again. He stays exactly where he is, face down, breathing slow and even against the pillow as if he’s asleep while Enjolras slips out of the room. He lets himself out of the apartment, walks away into the night and wanders the streets for hours looking for some familiar landmark to help him find his way home. He gets in late, about two o’ clock, showers briefly and then collapses on his bed.

That night he sleeps better than he has in weeks, warm, satisfied and relaxed under the sheets.

~

The next day at work, Courfeyrac looks at him like he knows. “Looks like someone had a wild night,” he grins as he drops a stack of paperwork off at Enjolras’s desk, eyes burning with curiosity. Enjolras shrugs the attention off. His work colleagues don’t know about the bars. They know that Enjolras goes out some nights, sure, but they’ve always assumed he meets up with his college friends and he’s never bothered to correct them. Why would he want to?

“It was okay,” he says, knowing that’s an understatement. “Got home a bit late.”

Courfeyrac claps him on the shoulder proudly. “You say that like it’s a bad thing!” he says, tone teasing as he perches on the edge of Enjolras’s desk. “You can’t be all work and no play all the time, Enjolras, you’ll burn yourself out. You have to let that lovely hair of yours down every once in a while.”

Combeferre raises an eyebrow at them across the office. “Courfeyrac,” he says. “Stop flirting with Enjolras.”

“No need to be jealous, ‘Ferre.” Courfeyrac laughs, ruffles Enjolras’s hair and then stands up to stretch. “You know you’re the only one for me.” He winks across the office, blowing Combeferre a kiss. “Hey, remember we have that board meeting at ten. I’m gonna run through the presentation one more time. Wanna practice with me?”

Combeferre nods. “Sure.” He taps a few keys on his laptop. “Let me just save my work.”

Half a minute later, they disappear down the corridor together and Enjolras wonders, briefly, if Courfeyrac knows that Combeferre is in love with him. He’s never really thought about it before. It’s just one of those things they’re all used to ignoring. Combeferre loves Courfeyrac, and no one ever acknowledges it. Weird.

~

That night he ends up back at the bar. It’s on his way home from work and it’s been a long day. He tells himself that he’s only there to buy a drink. Just one. Then he’s leaving. It’s not like he’s hoping to see Grantaire again. Except for the part where he really, really is. When Courfeyrac and Combeferre came back from the meeting, they were both grinning. Apparently it went well. Courfeyrac had an arm casually slung around Combeferre’s shoulder, carefree and easy, and it looked—comfortable. Made the ache in Enjolras’s stomach flare up again.

So here he is, sitting in the same booth he sat at yesterday, idly watching as people pair off and leave together. One drink turns into four. Grantaire doesn’t show up and it’s only when disappointment kicks in that Enjolras realises he was waiting for him. He sighs, approaches the table next to his own and asks the man if he wants to head out with him. The guy nods, finishes his drink then follows Enjolras out of the door. Too easy.

They go to the motel and Enjolras fucks him with his eyes closed, imagining the body beneath him is Grantaire’s. But it isn’t fast enough, or hard enough, or rough enough for the fantasy to be realistic. Not when the man beneath him doesn’t put up any sort of fight. He’s passive and needy. He moans at the wrong pitch and tries to cling onto Enjolras when he gets up to go.

When Enjolras gets home that night he jerks off in bed to the memory of Grantaire arched up under him, back curved up like a tightly strung bow as he panted and writhed on the sheets.

This may be turning into a problem.

~

He uses the weekend productively. He goes for a run on Saturday morning, catches up on his paperwork in the afternoon and drops by the office for a few hours in the evening to check the accounts. When night comes he calls Combeferre, invites him out for a catch up even though they see one another almost every day. They go for a drink in a normal bar. Enjolras goes home alone. Somehow, this feels like an achievement.

On Sunday he visits the orphanage. Gavroche is still fixing up the skateboard he gave him the last time he came. A few of the other boys have gathered around him, watching in awe as he jabs clumsily at one of the wheel with a screwdriver. Gavroche fondly refers to them his disciples. It never fails to make Enjolras laugh.

When they see Enjolras, though, their attention is immediately diverted. They gather at his knees, chattering at him until he picks them up, or ruffles their hair, or leans down to hug them. Gavroche watches the scene with a small smile on his face, content to let the others have the first say before he calls a greeting to Enjolras. “Haven’t seen you here in a while,” he says.

“Busy week,” says Enjolras. “Sorry. How have things been?”

Gavroche shrugs. “Same as ever. I heard some family wants to adopt Jean-Paul. He’s meeting them tomorrow. Other than that, no news.”

Enjolras knows that Gavroche doesn’t like losing one of his boys to the wider world. He feels like he can’t protect them while they’re out there and he’s here. He squeezes the boy’s shoulder gently, comforting, then changes the subject. “You going to let me take a look at that wheel, then?”

He leaves when the boys sit down for dinner. They chorus a “Goodbye, Mr Enjolras!” at him and Gavroche says, “I’ll see you soon.” The wheel on his skateboard is fixed now, and the other boys spent the afternoon taking turns on it. Even though Gavroche didn’t get to try it out for himself, he doesn’t complain. He likes to see the others happy in a completely unselfish way. That’s why Enjolras gave it to him.

It gets dark as he walks home, lonely and cold. He takes a shortcut, one that’s meant to get home quicker. Maybe he takes a wrong turning on the way. He’s not sure. Somehow he ends up back at the bar.

~

It’s nine o’ clock and Grantaire’s there already, sitting in a booth with another man. Enjolras feels a dull rush of disappointment as he looks at them. He goes to the bar, orders a drink and ignores the man making eyes at him across the counter. The guy is middle-aged and lecherous, with small eyes and too many teeth. His hair is thinning around his temples and he has the beginnings of a beer belly hidden under his flannel shirt.

Enjolras downs his drink, avoids eye contact and orders another. He has no idea why he’s hanging around. Except he does, and right now he’s sitting in a dark corner with another man. Not that Enjolras minds. Grantaire can do whatever—and whomever—he wants.

He winces when he feels someone’s hand settle at the small of his back. It startles him. He hates when guys get pushy and possessive. Before he can snap at them to get the fuck off, though, he hears a familiar voice by his ear. “Well,” says Grantaire, his tone laden with that familiar note of amusement. “I certainly wasn’t expecting you to be back so soon.”

Enjolras sets his glass down then turns to him. “Are you with that guy back there?” He nods towards the half-vacant booth that Grantaire came from. The guy there is watching them curiously. Enjolras glares at him, realizing it’s the same one from the bar last week. Grantaire’s easy smile tightens.

“Does it matter?”

It shouldn’t, but it does. “I’m only here for sex,” Enjolras finds himself saying shortly. His voice is colder than he’s ever heard it. “If you’re with him tonight, there’s no point in us talking.”

“Fine,” says Grantaire, equally cold. “We don’t need to talk. Let’s just go.”

~

Enjolras half remembers the way to Grantaire’s. It’s not far from the bar but the route is complicated, right down one street and then right again down an almost identical one. A left at the third turning, then right again. Neither of them have said a word since they left the bar together. It feels like the first time all over again. Grantaire fumbles with the key in the lock. Enjolras hesitates for a moment before he steps inside.

The hall is messier than it was last time he came here, but he tries not to pay too much attention to it. He kicks his shoes off by the door and follows the passage to Grantaire’s room. At least he remembers how to get there. It’s the last door, past two closed ones and a third that’s slightly ajar. Enjolras could see inside it if he stopped to look, but he doesn’t allow himself to. No point in getting more attached.

Once he’s in Grantaire’s room he peels his clothes off. Grantaire closes the door behind him and does the same. The silence in the room is different this time. There’s no playful, teasing atmosphere and no frantic energy. No ripped shirts or eager fingers. It’s all tension and inexplicable anger. Grantaire kneels on the bed again, fingering himself open as Enjolras rolls a condom over his cock. As soon as he feels Enjolras’s weight on the back of his calves, he stops. This time he braces his arms against the headboard and waits.

Enjolras smoothes a hand down his side and Grantaire’s body twitches perfectly against him. He settles his palms at Grantaire’s waist, where the bruises his fingers left behind last time are still fading on Grantaire’s skin. He aligns his hands with those, carefully fitting them into the purple shadows. Then he slams inside Grantaire, and Grantaire grunts in displeasure, and it seems to start all over again.

It’s like they’ve been doing this for years, the way their bodies move against each other in perfect synchronization. Still rough, but Enjolras feels more in control this time. He can make Grantaire moan and bend if he snaps his hips forwards at just the right angle. He’s not hitting his prostate, not quite, but he knows he’s near it from the way it makes Grantaire whine. If he tilts his hips up just slightly, Grantaire gets louder, and if he drives forwards as deep as he can Grantaire curses, grinding back against him.

Like last time, Enjolras wraps a tight fist around Grantaire’s cock. He strokes him as he fucks him, one in time with the other, and he watches closely as Grantaire come apart beneath him. His knuckles have turned white where he’s clinging to the headboard. His eyes are shut and his head is thrown back, revealing the long arch of his throat. Enjolras doesn’t stop to think before he leans forward and presses his lips against it, biting and sucking until he knows he’s left a mark.

He changes his angle as he straightens up, pressing his hard cock against Grantaire’s prostate for the first time. That pushes Grantaire over the edge and he comes loudly, spurting over Enjolras’s hand, over the sheets, over his own stomach with a broken groan. It sounds like something has broken inside him. Maybe it has. Even when he’s through he stays where he is, braced against the headboard, hips driving back against Enjolras until he comes too, filling the condom with his heavy load.

Enjolras pulls out of Grantaire and ties the condom off when they’re done. He drops it over the side of the bed and then settles into the sheets, just for a minute, until the air sits still in the room and they’ve both caught their breath again. Their legs tangle together a post-coital haze of warmth, sweat and come, and in that moment Enjolras almost convinces himself that this is something it’s not.

Then he remembers that they haven’t exchanged a word since they left the bar. Grantaire doesn’t want him for anything more than this, just like he doesn’t want Grantaire. This is just sex.

He closes his eyes, draws in a deep breath and presses his lips against the red mark that’s forming on the side of Grantaire’s neck. There’s no reaction. Maybe Grantaire has fallen asleep again. He gets up, though every bone in his body tells him not to, and forces his heavy limbs back into his t-shirt and jeans.

“You look weird without a suit,” Grantaire tells him as he’s about to leave. He’s on his back, watching Enjolras with a lazily casual expression. His bare legs are still tangled in the sheets. They ride low on his hips, barely covering his cock. Enjolras wonders how long he’s been laying there like that, arm slung across his forehead, watching him and saying nothing. Maybe ever since he stood up. The thought of that makes his stomach turn.

Enjolras shrugs, plays it off as nothing. “Can’t dress sharp all the time.”

“You look like you could manage it just fine,” says Grantaire. Then he rolls over, effectively closing the conversation. “The bathroom is next door if you want to clean up a little. You can let yourself out when you go.”

“I—” Enjolras starts to say, then changes his mind. “That sounds great. Thank you.”

He finds his way home without much difficulty this time.

~

Combeferre gives him a big project the next week, something to distract himself with. He can see that Enjolras is itching to do _something_ , so he gives him something to do. Combeferre has always been sharp like that and Enjolras is endlessly grateful for it.

He gladly throws himself into research. He visits three orphanages in the South that week and puts together a huge case file about improvements that need to be made to living conditions there. He visits mothers who have had their children taken from them against their will and helps them to understand their rights as a parent. Courfeyrac helps four of those mothers get their children back. They do what they can to keep as many kids as possible out of the system.

While he’s busy working, he decides he’s probably over it. The Grantaire thing, that is. The feeling that settles in the pit of his stomach when he thinks of him starts to lose its sway over him. When he’s busy, he just doesn’t have time to focus on it. Then Friday rolls around and everything at the office comes to a standstill. As soon as the distraction of orphans and paperwork and phone calls are gone, Enjolras finds himself back at the bar.

Grantaire is there. Like some sort of permanent fixture, he always seems to be there. Enjolras sees him as soon as he comes in, talking to that other guy again. He doesn’t know what to do so he orders a drink and waits. If Grantaire wants him, he’ll come over.

He’s not surprised when Grantaire slips onto the stool opposite him and grins.

“It’s been a while,” he says. “Busy week?”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow at him and then nods. “New project,” he says. “The board only just gave us the go ahead for it, so.”

“Nice,” says Grantaire. Enjolras can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not.

A weird sort of half-silence sets in. They’re not used to having actual conversations. Trying to seems weird. “Do you come here every night?” Enjolras finds himself asking awkwardly.

Grantaire laughs, waggling his eyebrows at Enjolras. “No,” he says. “But I’d quite like to.” He’s joking, obviously, but it still makes Enjolras’s pulse speed up, his heart rate quicken, his breath catch in his chest. Grantaire doesn’t bother to hide the way he watches Enjolras for a reaction. He seems disappointed by whatever he sees. “It was a joke, Apollo,” he tells Enjolras curtly. “Don’t worry, I’m not trying to make you commit.”

“I know.” Enjolras swallows down his disappointment. “Are we going?”

~

Over the next few months, they fall into a sort of pattern. It works like this: Enjolras goes to the bar and finds Grantaire when he needs him. They fuck at Grantaire’s empty apartment and it’s rough, sweaty, perfect. Then Enjolras leaves.

They stick to the rules they established the first time they did this, barely talking, never kissing, no kinks. Beyond the bar and the short walk to the bedroom, their relationship is non-existent. Grantaire never says no when he sees Enjolras, not even when Enjolras seeks him out several times in one week. He leaves whoever he’s talking to before and appears by Enjolras’s side, drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

One week Enjolras meets up with him every night after work. On Friday night, after they have sex, Grantaire stops Enjolras before he crawls out of bed with a hand on his arm. “Look, I—you know we’ve been doing this for a couple of months now,” he says. His voice sounds more serious than usual and, for a horrible moment, Enjolras thinks he’s going to say he wants to stop. “I don’t even know your name, it’s—”

“Enjolras,” says Enjolras. “My name is Enjolras.”

“Oh,” says Grantaire. “Okay, that’s cool. Enjolras, I’m Grantaire.”

Enjolras wants to tell him that he knows, that he’s know that since the first night, but he doesn’t. He can’t believe they left introductions out for this long. “Grantaire,” repeats Enjolras. “I can work with Grantaire. I’ll see you next week.”

He presses a soft kiss to Grantaire’s cheek and then instantly regrets it. But there are no take-backs in real life and he has no choice but to play it cool. He gets out of bed, gathers his clothes into a pile and escapes to the bathroom. He uses the shower briefly, trying to wash away his embarrassment, and then leaves.

Three days pass before he crawls into Grantaire’s bed again.

~

“So I’m moving out,” Grantaire says two weeks later like it’s the most casual thing in the world. They’re both naked. Enjolras is half on top of him, absent-mindedly smoothing his hand up and down Grantaire’s side. He freezes in place.

“Moving where?”

Grantaire shrugs underneath him. “Probably not far from here. The guys I’m sharing this flat with at the moment are both moving in with their partners or whatever and I can’t afford the rent this place on my own. I’ll probably crash at Bahorel’s or something until I find somewhere decent.”

Enjolras wants to tell him that he can move in with him, but that would be stupid and weird. He doesn’t know anything about Grantaire, aside from his name and his address, and it’s not like Grantaire would want to live with him anyway. They’re not even in a relationship. This is just casual sex. So instead of making Grantaire an offer, he says, “Bahorel?” like he’s gonna have any idea who that is when Grantaire tells him.

“Yeah,” says Grantaire. “He’s the guy that stops by the bar sometimes. Tall, dark and handsome? Built a lot like a brick wall? You’ve probably seen him around.”

Enjolras has a feeling he knows who Grantaire is talking about. It’s the guy that he always sees Grantaire talking to when he gets to the bar. He’s the one who took Grantaire home the first time Enjolras saw him. His gut twists unpleasantly at the thought of them living together, having a life together, but there’s nothing he can do.

“I can’t remember him,” he lies. “Point him out to me next time we’re all there.”

“Sure.” Grantaire gives him a strange look, a fond sort of half smile, and then closes his eyes. “I’ll see you next week some time, yeah?”

“Yeah,” agrees Enjolras. “Probably won’t be until Wednesday, though. I’ve got shit to do.”

It’s not strictly true, but he knows he needs to put some distance between them before he does something stupid and fucks all this up. Casual, he reminds himself. This is meant to be casual. There’s no point in getting possessive and attached.

He needs to visit Gavroche and the boys this weekend anyway. It’s been way too long.

Distracted by his thoughts, he barely notices the way he automatically presses a kiss to Grantaire’s temple before climbing out of bed. Grantaire’s body instantly goes tense beneath him, but even then it’s not until he’s in Grantaire’s shower that he realizes his mistake. It’s the second time this has happened. The second time he’s fucked up and broken his own rule. Stupid—fucking stupid idiot with no sense of self-control. Later, when he looks at his hazy reflection in the steamed-up bathroom mirror, he has to struggle not to put his fist through it.

~

“You’ve met someone.” It’s not a question, or an accusation, just a simple statement of facts. Gavroche is looking at him, his piercing blue eyes boring holes in Enjolras’s chest. Who’d have thought that being confronted by a twelve year old could be so unnerving? Someone who has never met Gavroche, Enjolras expects.

Enjolras sighs. “Come on, Gav. It’s nothing like that, I swear.”

“Really?” Gavroche returns flatly, voice dripping with cynicism. “What is it like, then? Because it feels a helluva lot like that. You never stop by to see us anymore. I try to call your apartment and you’re always out. Jean-Paul moved out four months ago and you didn’t even know. So tell me what it is like, Enjolras. How, exactly, is this different?”

Enjolras doesn’t have any answers for him. He can’t exactly say it’s different because he’s not dating Grantaire, because that just makes him sound worse. Ditching the orphanage for a guy that doesn’t even want to commit to him? Yeah, that’ll go down a treat.

There’s no point in even looking for an excuse. He doesn’t have one. “You’re right,” says Enjolras. “I’m sorry, Gav. I’ll come and see you guys more often.”

“Damn straight,” says Gavroche, nodding. It makes Enjolras feel like a kid again, like he just got chewed out for not doing his homework or something. “You should bring the guy here some time. It’s not like you to be ass over heels for someone. I want to meet him.”

Enjolras tries to laugh but it doesn’t come out right. “Maybe,” he says. “I’ll ask when he’s free.”

~

He has no intention of asking when Grantaire is free. He can’t take him to the orphanage. Watching him hang out with children would probably break Enjolras for good, and then there would be no one to sneak the boys chocolate and toy cars. Really, not introducing the boys to Grantaire is everyone’s best interests. But, for some weird reason or other, as soon as he sees Grantaire again it’s all he wants to do.

Wednesday evening sees him back at the bar. As usual, Grantaire is there already. He gestures for Enjolras to come over to the booth he’s sitting at as soon as he sees him, which is unusual. They don’t _do_ friendly in public. Or in private, actually. Maybe they should start. The way Grantaire is smiling at Enjolras all enthusiastic, lit up like a little kid on Christmas morning, sends nervous butterflies fluttering about his stomach. At least it does until he figures out why he’s being called over. The man—Bahorel—is there, sitting in the booth beside Grantaire, and the two of them are pressed unnecessarily close together.

“Hey, Enjolras! This is Bahorel,” says Grantaire excitedly, and Enjolras realizes that none of the smiles were for his benefit at all. “He’s the guy I told you about. I’m moving in with him on Thursday.”

“Thursday,” repeats Enjolras dumbly. “Wait, what? You mean you're moving in with him  _tomorrow_?”

Bahorel nods, a smug little smirk playing about his lips. “We thought it would be better to move him in sooner rather than later, you know? His flatmates are going to be packing up their stuff next week.”

“They won’t want me around, getting in their way,” explains Grantaire with a short, self-deprecating laugh. “So I figured I’d get outta their hair before they start sorting their shit out. It means I don’t have to chip in with the rent for this month, so that’s a bonus I guess.” 

It’s more than Enjolras has ever heard him talk in one go.

“Oh,” he replies weakly. “Well, I guess that makes sense.”

As if he’s just realising how awkward this situation is, Grantaire starts fidgeting in place. “So, do you want to stay for a drink?” he asks Enjolras gingerly. “I can go and get you one if you like.”

“No, I’m good,” says Enjolras, recognizing it for the dismissal it is. Have a drink with us and then get out of here so we can fuck in our perfect new apartment together. Start our perfect domestic life together. How about one for the road? A classic. He sighs, shakes his head and says, “I guess I’ll see you around.” 

He leaves the bar before Grantaire can say anything else. Bahorel is glaring daggers into the back of his head and he can feel them. It actually hurts. Or maybe it’s just the jealousy again, stinging at the back of his eyes and urging him to get out of there, get out before this gets worse. He’s halfway back to his apartment before Grantaire catches up to him, sneakers slapping against the concrete as he rushes to keep up. 

“Enjolras!” he calls from not very far away. Enjolras pauses under a streetlamp to give Grantaire time to catch his breath, leans against its black column in a parody of high schooler attempts at casual. “Look, I’m sorry. I get it, that whole situation made you uncomfortable, it’s cool, but I just—I thought—well. It was a stupid idea. But you don’t have to be like this.”

Enjolras sighs. “I’m not being like anything, Grantaire. I’m just going home.”

“Yeah,” says Grantaire. “Without me.”

“I thought you were busy,” Enjolras snaps back.

Grantaire gives him a cold, hard look and then rolls his eyes. “When am I ever too busy for you?”

He can’t stop the warm sensation spreading through his veins at that, leaving every nerve in his body tingling. He almost smiles, because it sounds like more than it is. It sounds like more than just sex. But it isn’t, and Enjolras isn’t stupid enough to misinterpret. “I think you should go back,” he says. “I’m not really in the mood tonight.”

“If you weren’t in the mood then why were you at the bar?”

Enjolras shrugs. “I don’t know. Sometimes I have nothing better to do.”

“Fine.” Something angry and unpleasant twists across Grantaire’s features. Enjolras has never seen him as cold and unreadable as this before, eyes hard as ice and lips pressed thinly together. There’s not a trace of his perpetual amusement in his expression. “Whatever. I’ll go back if you don’t want me.”

Back to the bar. Back to Bahorel. Enjolras doesn’t care.

“Then I guess I’ll see you around,” he says, pushes himself off the lamp-post and leaves. He goes back to his empty apartment, opens a bottle of brandy and drinks it until his insides burn more than the pain throbbing in his chest does. That night he swears to himself that he’s not going back to the bar.

~

Combeferre confronts him the next day at work. “You look like shit,” he says, setting a large mug of coffee down on the table in front of Enjolras, who is filling out stacks of overdue paperwork that crept up on him when he wasn’t looking. On days like today, when he’s hung over and miserable, he likes the monotony of writing the same things over and over again in different blank spaces. Unlike everything else in his life, it seems easy and uncomplicated. When he looks up, he’s not surprised to see that Combeferre’s still there, worried expression set firmly in place. “Enjolras,” he says. “Did something happen with your boyfriend?”

“I'm sorry, I don’t know what you mean,” says Enjolras shortly. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

The look Combeferre gives him is thoroughly unconvinced, but he doesn’t press for answers any further. “Alright,” he says instead. “Perhaps I have been too hasty in my to assumptions. But I want you to know that I am always here for you. No matter what the problem is, Enjolras, you can talk to me.”

Enjolras laughs, bitter and hollow. “Thanks. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

But he knows that he won’t be talking to Combeferre about it any time soon. How would he even start? I picked a guy up at a gay bar once and now we have semi-regular sex. He wants to keep it casual and I’m not sure I can. Oh, and I know absolutely nothing about him. I don’t even have his number and he’s about to move in with someone else. What do you think I should do? Enjolras doubts that even Combeferre, who always knows the right answer for everything, would have anything to say to that.

~

A week goes by. Enjolras takes a different route home from the office. He’s careful not to walk near the bar because he knows that if he’s near it, he won’t be able to resist going in. On Friday, he even considers going somewhere else. Picking up someone else. Fucking someone else. He hasn’t had sex with anyone other than Grantaire for months. Not since the second time, when Grantaire let him use his shower. Maybe a change would do him some good. But the thought of going to a cheap motel with an even cheaper stranger suddenly seems repulsive to him. He doesn’t want that anymore.

So he distracts himself in other ways. He goes to the orphanage every night after work. He fills out his backlog of paperwork and then makes a start on Courfeyrac’s too. He ignores the way Gavroche raises an eyebrow at him and says, “I asked you to stop by more often, not to damn well move in. The novelty of having you here is wearing off, even for the little ones. You _can_ have too much of a good thing, Enjolras.”

Enjolras knows he’s joking but his words still sting. It seems like Enjolras is always too much of a good thing lately. But it’s not all bad. The younger kids still seem glad to see him, no matter what Gavroche says, and he’s being more productive at work than he has been for months. Even if he feels empty inside, he tells himself this is a good thing. If he keeps this up, he can call it a clean break and move on with his life.

Then Gavroche goes missing from the orphanage.

~

Enjolras doesn’t know what to do. He looks everywhere. The street corner he found Gavroche on the first time, the old barber shop he used to frequent, even Éponine’s old apartment. There’s no sign of him anywhere. A part of him has always known this could happen again. Gavroche is more than capable of disappearing into the backstreets, gone without a trace. He’s done it before, when Éponine first left him. But Enjolras wasn’t expecting him to do it again. Not like this. He thought that by now, after everything they’ve been through, Gavroche would have at least had the decency to warn him.

He didn’t, though, and Enjolras can understand that too. Boys like Gavroche know better than to trust anyone. If he had told Enjolras where he was going, Enjolras would have tried to stop him. So he hadn’t said anything, and now all Enjolras knows is that he has to be _somewhere_ and he needs to be found. He doesn’t have to go back to the orphanage straight away, not if he doesn’t want to, but Enjolras needs to know he’s safe.

That’s why he calls in sick at work the minute he finds out. Why he spends an entire day tearing through the city’s backstreets, searching the shadows for a glimpse of dirty golden hair, shabby clothes and crooked teeth. But by the time the sun sets there’s still no sign of him and the darkness sinking low over the horizon is making Enjolras feel nauseous. The streets aren’t safe at night. Not for a grown man, and certainly not for a boy. Gavroche may know his way around better than anyone, but God knows what could happen to him out here with no one looking out for him.

Enjolras knows he needs to calm down. Panicking isn’t going to help anyone.

Maybe that’s why he ends up back at the bar. Back under that familiar sepia lighting. He has his fists clenched at his sides as he walks in. He can feel anxiety wrack through his body with every step. And then Grantaire is there, right beside him, and everything feels like it’s going to be okay, even if his voice is sharp as he snaps, “Enjolras, what the fuck are you trying to—fuck. You’re shaking. Enjolras, are you okay?”

“I’m—” Enjolras starts, but the words choke him and he just shakes his head.

Grantaire must understand, because he doesn’t hesitate before pulling Enjolras into his arms. His big hands slide along Enjolras’s back, soothing up and down his spine, and he’s whispering a steady stream of ‘shh’es and ‘it’s going to be okay’s under his breath. For a minute, Enjolras lets himself believe that. He clings to Grantaire, tucks his face into the hollow in the crook his neck, clings on and breathes him in, and lets himself have this. His arms are wrapped tight around Grantaire’s waist, possessive, like he never wants to let him go.

But he has to. Right now. He has to find Gavroche.

Enjolras pulls back enough to look at Grantaire, to see the worry in his eyes. He’s suddenly conscious of the fact that everyone in the room is staring at them when he says, “I have to go.”

“I’m coming with you,” says Grantaire instantly.

“No.” Enjolras shakes his head. “It’s not like that tonight. My friend. He’s missing and I need to find him. He’s only twelve and I—”

Grantaire cuts him off before he has a chance to finish. He says, “ _Enjolras_. I’m coming with you.”

The familiar Grantaire-induced warmth starts spreading through his chest again, mingling with the maelstrom of nausea that’s wreaking havoc inside his stomach until it settles into something more manageable again. “Okay.” Enjolras pauses, briefly, and then takes Grantaire’s hand in his own. Their fingers lace together easily, like they’ve been doing this for years. “Thank you.”

~

Grantaire says he knows a guy who can help them. Enjolras can’t even bring himself to care when that guy turns out to be Bahorel. He shows up ten minutes after Grantaire calls him, complaining, “Grantaire, I already _told_ you that I have important plans tonight. This had better be good.” He stops short when he sees Enjolras, then glares at them darkly as he notices the fact that the pair of them are holding hands. “If you’re trying to make me play house again, I’m going back to the flat. This is ridiculous.”

“I have a friend that has gone missing,” Enjolras blurts out. He doesn’t quite understand what Bahorel just said; he wasn’t really listening. All he heard was the part where Bahorel threatened to leave. If there’s a chance he’ll be able to help them, Enjolras needs to stop him. “His name is Gavroche. He’s twelve years old and he could be anywhere. Please, Bahorel, can you help us find him?”

Bahorel exhales sharply, like he wasn’t expecting that. “Fuck,” he says. “How long has he been gone?”

“He climbed out of his bedroom window some time last night.” Enjolras feels Grantaire squeeze his hand, urging him to say more. “Probably around midnight. He lives in the orphanage near the church. Before we found him, he lived on the streets. I’ve already looked everywhere he used to go, and—”

“Alright, I get it,” Bahorel interrupts coolly. If he notices the way Grantaire glares at him, he ignores it. “I’m going to call Patron-Minette.”

Grantaire’s eyes widen. “Wait, I—are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Not certain, no, but I think it’s our best bet.” Bahorel shrugs. “If there’s a scrawny little kid running around on the streets, they’re the ones most likely to know about it. Everyone knows they have eyes everywhere. That’s how they keep track of everything that happens in the city.”

“Who are they?” asks Enjolras, though he’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

“One of the most renowned street gangs in the world. If you were at all familiar with criminal circles, you'd know of them.” Bahorel’s explanation is blunt and straight to the point. Enjolras feels himself warming to him. “The police can’t get a handle on them because they have too many contacts. Lucky for you, they owe me a few favours.”

Enjolras can handle that. He doesn’t mind calling in favours with criminals if it means he gets Gavroche back.

“Okay,” he says. “If they can help then call them.” Beside him Grantaire looks ready to protest, like Enjorlas doesn’t understand what he’s dealing with, but Bahorel already has his phone out. Just seconds later he’s got it pressed against his ear, calling whoever it is you call when you want to get in touch with a bunch of criminals. Enjolras can hear the dull ring on the other end of the line echo through the still air.

“Claquesous,” Bahorel says when someone picks up. “You’re gonna have to meet me outside Feuilly’s bar. Yeah, tonight. As soon as possible. No, of course I don’t mean there. What even is that—fine. Make it the next alleyway over, then. Bring the boys.”

~

Claquesous and his band of boys find Gavroche in less than an hour. He’s hidden inside a hollowed out elephant statue with some other kid. When the pair of them crawl out of there, grubby kneed and shivering, the younger kid has the grace to look sheepish. In the half-light, Enjolras recognises him as Jean-Paul. He got adopted a couple of months ago now, taken out of the orphanage and moved across the city to the nicer half of town. He should be safe and happy at home. Instead, he’s sporting a split lip and a swollen eye.

“Enjolras,” says Gavroche. He’s obviously fuming. “Why are you here?”

“You went missing in the middle of the night without warning me,” Enjolras replies, his tone equally curt. “What the hell was I supposed to do, Gavroche? I couldn’t exactly leave you out here on your own.”

Gavroche scowls back at him. “You could have trusted me enough to realize that I knew what I was doing when I came here. Do you seriously think I’d leave the orphanage without a really good reason?” He pauses, waiting for an answer he doesn’t get. “Look. Tonight I had to help one of my boys get out of a bad situation. Once I sorted that out, I was gonna go back. You should have just left it.”

“Maybe I couldn’t leave it,” says Enjolras. It sounds childish, even to his own ears.

“Enjolras,” Gavroche returns, his voice infuriatingly steady for a twelve year old kid. “I’m not your responsibility. I know you think that I am because my sister asked you to look out for me that one time or whatever, but I’m not. You don’t need to do this.”

“You’re my friend. I couldn’t help being worried.”

Gavroche sighs. “You shouldn’t have been. Friends trust friends and I had this under control.”

The boy next to Gavroche is shivering against the cold. From the corner of his eye, Enjolras sees the way Grantaire and Bahorel are watching him with matching expressions of pity. He sighs. “You’re both gonna catch a cold if you stay out here much longer.”

“I’m not going back yet,” says Gavroche, jutting his chin up defiantly.

“Okay,” Enjolras agrees. “That’s fine. But at least come back to my apartment with me. I have a spare room you can both stay in. We can deal with whatever’s going on with this in the morning.”

Jean-Paul shoots a hesitant look at Gavroche, like he’s not sure whether or not they can trust Enjolras. Gavroche sighs, defeated. “Don’t worry, Enjolras isn’t a threat,” he tells him reassuringly. “He’s just an idiot who thinks he has our best interests at heart. There’s no harm in us going back to his place if you want to.”

The kid seems to take Gavroche’s word as gospel. “Okay,” he says, nodding. “I think I’m too cold to stay out here. If you're sure he's safe then we should go with him.”

~

It’s too cold for them to walk home and too late to use the metro, so Enjolras calls them a cab. They all pile into the back when the car pulls over, Gavroche, Jean-Paul, Grantaire and Bahorel. It’s a tight squeeze; Jean-Paul has to sit on Grantaire’s lap. As they drive through the streets, Enjolras watches them through the rear-view mirror, sees the easy way Jean-Paul curls into the thick material of Grantaire’s jumper and falls asleep. And Grantaire holds the kid tenderly, like he’s made of glass, as if he’s going to break any moment now.

When the cab stops outside Enjolras’s apartment complex, Grantaire is careful to carry him out of the car without waking him. Enjolras keys in the code to unlock the main doors while Bahorel holds the door open to let Grantaire and Jean-Paul through. He can’t even find it in himself to be jealous that he got there first. He’s too relieved to have Gavroche back, safely off the streets.

Gavroche, for his part, follows behind the group silently. He’s frowning pensively down at his feet as they wait for the elevator to take them to the third floor. Enjolras nudges him gently. “You okay?” he whispers.

“Yeah,” Gavroche replies. He’s simmered down a lot since Jean-Paul said he wanted to go with Enjolras. “I’m glad Jean-Paul’s getting some sleep. He was too scared to when we were still inside the elephant. Thought we were going to get stuck in there and suffocate or something.”

Bahorel barely manages to muffle his loud laugh. “What?” he demands when the other three glare at him. “Don’t give me those looks. The way he said it made it sound kinda funny.”

Enjolras and Grantaire exchange a half-amused half-exhasperated glance as the elevator doors slide open. It’s a glance that acknowledges that Bahorel is an idiot, but that they’re both kind of glad he’s here anyway. Enjolras has to consent that he’s been helpful tonight. Without him, they wouldn’t have had any help from Claquesous the boys. Besides, it’s nice to have someone around who isn’t taking the situation too seriously. Comic relief. It keeps the atmosphere light.

His apartment is through the first door on the left. He fits his key in the door and unlocks it quickly, gesturing for Grantaire to follow him straight through to the spare room. They set Jean-Paul down on the bed, unlace his small school shoes, pull them off and then tuck him in underneath the blankets. As they leave the room, Grantaire catches Enjolras’s hand again and squeezes it.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m glad you found your friend.”

Enjolras swallows around the lump in his throat.

“I am too.”

They’re alone in the corridor. Enjolras can hear Bahorel and Gavroche clattering around in the kitchen, but he’s not too bothered about that. All he can think about, now that he and Grantaire are together for the first time in over a week, is how much he wants to kiss him. His eyes wander down to Grantaire’s lips. Sees the way that Grantaire deliberately wets them and notices how Grantaire is watching him too. He’s leaning in before he can stop himself, and their noses bump gently before they get the angle right enough for Enjolras to press a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth. His other hand, the one that’s not clasped around Grantaire’s, comes up to cup Grantaire’s jaw, turns his head to one side slightly so he can fit their lips together properly.

The kiss is soft and lingering, like nothing they’ve ever done before. Neither of them makes an attempt to deepen it before they’re drawing apart. “Thank you,” Enjolras says softly, not caring about the way he’s resting his forehead against Grantaire’s. So what if he’s being needy? Grantaire is letting him. “For helping me find him, I mean. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

Grantaire smiles back at him. His thumb traces a line from Enjolras’s wrist to the top of his knuckles. “I’m glad that I could help you,” he says. “Thank you for letting me.”

Suddenly the moment feels too intense. Grantaire’s smile is too sincere, the way he’s holding Enjolras’s hand is too tight, and the look in his eyes seems too much like affection for this to be real. It isn’t _them_. This isn’t what they do. Telling himself not to get used to it, Enjolras pulls away.

“We should go and check on Gavroche,” he says. “I need to know what’s going on with him.”

“Sure thing,” says Grantaire, nodding, and suddenly it’s like the last five minutes didn’t happen at all. The moment fades away into nothing as they make their way towards the kitchen. But Grantaire forgets to let go of his hand, and Enjolras doesn’t remind him to.

~

They’re sitting around the lounge together, tucked under blankets with mugs of hot cocoa in hand. Bahorel and Gavroche are stretched out across one of the leather couches, exchanging unsubtle grins with each other like a pair of just-reunited old partners in crime. They’re up to something, Enjolras can tell, but he isn’t quite sure what that something is yet.

He and Grantaire are sharing a couch too, sitting close together so they can share a blanket. They’re still holding hands under the sheet, but Bahorel and Gavroche don’t need to know that.

“So,” says Enjolras, looking at Gavroche. “Tell me what's going on with Jean-Paul.”

Gavroche shrugs. “I asked a few people to look out for him on the other side of town, and they told me his new parents weren’t treating him so great. He says they locked him in his room if he got bad grades, and the man used to beat him around when he didn’t listen to them. So I busted him out. Was gonna take care of him until we came up with a plan to get him away from there permanently. I’m not letting him go back to those psychos, Enjolras.”

“Shit,” says Bahorel, eyes widening before he rubs a tired hand across his face, like he needs something to ground him before he can accept that this is real. He doesn’t look light-hearted about everything anymore. Just worried and helpless. 

It doesn’t come as much of a shock to Enjolras. He’d seen the bruises around Jean-Paul’s eyes, the split in his lip and the wide, fearful look in his eyes as he scrambled out of the elephant. It was hard to miss the way he plastered himself against Gavroche’s side, obviously restraining himself from running away when faced with adults. Figures of authority. Poor kid.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “We can handle this. I’m going to get in touch with Combeferre in the morning and have him prepare a legal case for Jean-Paul. We’ll get him taken out of the custody of his adoptive parents and, if he wants, moved back into the orphanage. Until that’s all sorted out, you can both stay here.”

Gavroche nods. “I’ll stay,” he says. “At least for a while.”

Relief courses through Enjolras’s veins. He’s not ready to let Gavroche out of his sight again yet. Not until he can be certain that the boy will stay in one place. “That’s fine. While we wait, I’ll see if Courfeyrac and I can figure out why social services didn’t catch this sooner. You shouldn’t have to do this, Gav. It’s their fucking _job_ to check on kids like Jean-Paul until they’re sure he’s adjusted to his new environment which, clearly, they didn’t.”

Bahorel’s face darkens. “If they aren’t doing that then what the hell are they getting paid for?”

“Nothing,” says Gavroche, shrugging. “System is corrupt as hell and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“I can do something about it.” Enjolras’s eyes are fierce and decisive. Gavroche doesn’t bother to argue.

Grantaire is watching him silently. There’s a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips and, every now and then, he gives Enjolras’s hand a gentle squeeze under the blanket. Bahorel makes a face at them across the room. “Now that this is all sorted, I think I’m gonna head off,” he announces, standing up and stretching. “Gavroche, you’re like twelve. Go to bed already.” Gavroche sticks his tongue out at him and stays put. Bahorel rolls his eyes and turns to Grantaire, who looks torn between staying put and standing up. “You don’t have to leave just because I am, dude. I’m gonna be at Feuilly’s tonight so whatever, you don’t even need to worry about waking me up when you get in.”

“Right,” says Grantaire uncertainly. He shoots a quick look at Enjolras, like he needs to check that this is okay, and Enjolras gives his hand a quick squeeze in reply. A squeeze that says _stay with me_. “I guess I’ll see you later then. Tell Feuilly I’m sorry for ruining your date.”

Bahorel laughs. “Sure. He’ll understand.” He bends down to ruffle Grantaire’s hair briefly, an affectionate little smile on his face. Enjolras notices how Grantaire leans into the touch. He’s not jealous about it, he tells himself. He’s _not_. “Call me in the morning, yeah? I wanna know how all this pans out.”

Enjolras doesn’t miss the way that makes Grantaire blush slightly, ducking his head under the blanket to hide his pinkening cheeks. He doesn’t get why, but he figures it’s safer not to ask. It’s probably a private joke or something. The sort you have with people you live with that other people can never understand, no matter how many times you explain it to them.

The silence stretches on a beat too long, growing awkward. Gavroche looks between the three adults in the room for a moment, then he rolls his eyes and stands up. “I’ll show you out,” he says to Bahorel, then leads him towards the door. “If you have trouble getting through the second door, the main access code is two-four-six-oh-one.”

“Thanks,” says Bahorel. “See you guys later.”

Gavroche shuts the door behind him and puts the latch on the door. Enjolras usually leaves it off, but he doesn’t protest. Whatever makes the kid feel comfortable and safe is fine with him. “Cool,” he says, then turns to Grantaire. “I like Bahorel. He seems like a good guy.” He stretches slowly, just like Bahorel had done before he left. “Now that’s sorted, I’m going to bed. Don’t know about you guys but I am _beat_. G’night!”

Before either of them have a chance to reply, the door to the spare room is swinging shut behind him.

Grantaire shoots Enjolras a soft sideways glance. “Why do I get the feeling we’ve just been stitched up?”

“Probably because we have,” says Enjolras. “Somehow or other, they’ve got us. I just haven’t figured out how yet.” He yawns, burrowing deeper into the covers and, by extension, Grantaire’s side. It’s warm and comfortable, and Enjolras lets his head drop onto Grantaire’s shoulder. Just for a moment or two.

Grantaire smiles down at him and doesn’t complain. “You must be wrecked. You should get to bed.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “Later.”

“You’ll hurt your neck if you fall asleep like this.”

“What are you, my mother?” Enjolras elbows him in the ribs and Grantaire squirms away, laughing. “Stop thinking this over so much. We’re fine here.”

“If you say so,” says Grantaire, shrugging. “I still think we’d be more comfortable in your bed.”

Enjolras straightens up so he can look at him properly. He can feel his heart hammering hard in his chest. Hard enough to smash through his ribs, probably. “Would you stay?”

“I would if you wanted me to.”

“Okay then,” says Enjolras. “Stay.”

He stands up, tugging Grantaire along with him, and leads him through to his bedroom. He kicks off his shoes then pulls his shirt over his head. His jeans come off next. He’s not self-conscious about it. Grantaire has seen him naked at least a hundred times by now. But the way Grantaire is looking at him across the room, all soft eyes and warm smiles, it makes him pause. He crosses the space between them and tugs Grantaire’s shirt off too.

“Come on,” he says, unbuckling Grantaire’s belt next. “It’s too cold in here to stand around gawping.”

Grantaire’s jeans are still stuck around his knees when Enjolras tugs him into bed. He kicks them off clumsily and then both of them are just in their underwear. As usual, Grantaire is wearing briefs and Enjolras is in boxers but, for once, they keep them on as their bodies press against one another under the sheets. Enjolras arranges them so he’s stretched out across Grantaire’s chest, one arm curled around his shoulders and his nose pressed against his neck. Grantaire goes with it easily enough, fitting his ice cold toes in between Enjolras’s calves to warm them up.

This comes to them as naturally to them as breathing. Somewhere, in the back of Enjolras’s mind, it registers with him that maybe it shouldn’t. “Just for tonight,” Enjolras whispers into the darkness, half asleep against Grantaire’s skin.

“Yeah, I know.” Enjolras feels Grantaire turn his head to press his lips against his forehead. Then his warm arm circles around Enjolras’s waist, holding him close. “Just for tonight.”

~

Enjolras wakes up to an empty bed and wonders why expected anything to be different this time. He rubs his eyes, yawns, and tries not to notice the empty spaces where Grantaire’s clothes are no longer scattered across the floor. Now there’s no tangible sign that last night even happened, Enjolras starts to wonder if it really did. But he can hear the sound of other people moving around his apartment. Probably Gavroche and his friend. Which means last night did happen after all. He groans into his pillow, pulls his duvet over his head and wonders if it would be too immature for him to just stay in bed and cry all day. Deep down he knows he can’t do that. Even if that wouldn’t be too pathetic for words, he has the whole Jean-Paul mess to sort out and he’s going to deal with it like a responsible adult. Quickly and efficiently, with minimal fuss and pining. 

For the sake of his own sanity, Enjolras decided a while ago that pining is strictly prohibited on work days. Moping about Grantaire’s absence from his bed counts as pining, he reminds himself gravely, and he’s not doing that today. So he rolls out of bed, grabs the first shirt he finds in his cupboard and yanks it down over his head.

“Gavroche,” he calls on the way to the bathroom. “Can you stick the kettle on for me?”

“Wow,” comes Grantaire’s soft voice from behind him, followed by a low wolf-whistle. Enjolras feels himself blush in pleasant surprise as he turns around to shoot a glare at Grantaire over his shoulder. It falls a little short of the mark when he sees the way the idiot is stretched across the sofa, cat-like and messy haired and grinning widely in one of Enjolras’s oversized old band tees. God knows where he found that.

He has a pen in one hand and yesterday’s newspaper in the other. It looks a lot like he’s been attacking the puzzle section. “Firstly, you look adorable with bed-hair. You should wear it like that more often. Secondly, I can’t believe you don’t do the Sudoku. Why would you bother buying the newspaper if you’re not gonna do the Sudoku?”

Enjolras stares at him blankly for a moment, then comes to his senses and says, “I thought you already left.”

“Yeah, so, about that,” says Grantaire, tucking the pen behind his ear before turning to face Enjolras fully. For a brief moment, he looks almost shy. “I have a tutorial, like, an hour from now and Google maps is telling me your place is closer to the university than mine. Mind if I chill out here for a bit? I promise to be quiet and to stay out of your way or whatever. I just can’t be bothered to walk back.”

“So you’re a student, then?” Enjolras goes for a tone of polite interest, but he can’t disguise the note of incredulity in his voice. He forgets, sometimes, that Grantaire has a life outside of their routine from the bar to the bedroom. It’s weird to think of him doing normal student things, like going to tutorials and lectures, or sitting down to write an essay. He just doesn’t seem the sort.

Grantaire shrugs. “Not quite, but you’re close. I’m a lecturer.”

“Oh right,” says Enjolras. That makes more sense. Grantaire is far too snarky, stubbly and spot-free to be a student. Being a lecturer suits him much better. Enjolras can picture him at the front of a room, hair messy, sleeves rolled up, demanding that his pupils call him Grantaire instead of the professor bullshit some of them come out with. The thought alone is almost enough to make him smile. He bites it back. “What do you teach?”

A look of confusion flickers across Grantaire’s face, like he wasn’t expecting Enjolras to take an interest in his life. “Mainly philosophy,” he answers after a moment. “But I take a couple of modules on political theory, too. If I get time, I sometimes take the advanced Latin class. It depends which is in highest demand each term really.”

“That’s—”

Utterly ridiculous. Unexpected. Amazing. Something Enjolras knows he should have figured out months ago. He thinks back to the messy piles of books that are always scattered across Grantaire’s floor, the shelves upon shelves of hardbacks he keeps lined up against his walls, and now he knows what Grantaire does for a living, he wonders how he’s never made the connection before. Grantaire as a lecturer. It makes so much sense.

“I know it’s not that impressive or anything,” Grantaire mutters, looking fixedly at a crack in the paint on the wall. The tips of his ears have turned slightly pink. “But it pays the bills. I’ve gotta keep myself off the streets somehow.” He shrugs. “You know how it is.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Don’t give me that bullshit. No one teaches just to make ends meet.”

“Well, I do.”

Suddenly Grantaire’s eyes are sharp and defiant, daring Enjolras to challenge him.

Enjolras can’t help rising to it.

“You’re lying,” he says. “It’s obvious you love your job. I’ve seen the papers all over your apartment, okay? And I know that write in all your books, break their spines when you read them and dog-ear the corners of the last page you read before I come over so you can find your place again when I leave.”

“Gee,” snaps Grantaire, obviously irritated by Enjolras's inadequate character study. “Since when do you have the capacity to be so observant and analytical? I like to read, therefore I must love my job. As a fucking lecturer. Which is all about talking at a bunch of pretentious, brain-dead little shits who don't want to listen to what I have to say anyway. Yeah, Enjolras, the two really correlate. What astute psychoanalytical skills you've got there. What do you do in your spare time, hm? Play the wannabe psychiatrist?” He laughs, cold and bitter. “We’ve fucked a few times and suddenly you think you _know_ me. Really, Enjolras, I didn’t have you down for the type.”

Enjolras feels his face heat up.

“Whatever,” he says. “I’m going to have a shower.”

He makes sure the bathroom door slams shut behind him. Turns the taps to the extreme left. Stands under the ice-cold stream for a long time, willing the heat to fade from his cheeks. It doesn’t work until he’s shivering to the bone, teeth chattering together, lungs constricting from the pressure on them to keep breathing. That’s when he shuts the water off, leans his forehead against the cold tile and lets himself think, for the first time today, how Grantaire is only on the other side of the thin wooden door, and yet he feels further away than he ever has before.

~

When Enjolras re-emerges from the bathroom, hair damp and messy and his nose a bright shade of red, Grantaire is the kitchen humming as he makes a batch of pancakes for the two boys. They’re both perched on one of the countertops with a huge pile of flour and cracked eggshells spread out in front of them. Gavroche has a streaks of the mixture matted in his messy hair.

“Morning Enjolras,” Jean-Paul chirps with a small smile. “Grantaire’s making us breakfast.”

Grantaire startles around, dropping the spatula he’s holding on the floor. “Oh. Hey you,” he says, smiling at Enjolras with forced ease. “I, uh. Thought you might need this.” He hesitates for a moment then presses a hot cup of coffee into Enjolras’s hand. “Whoa,” he says, startling when their fingers brush together. “What, did you run out of hot water or something? You’re fucking freezing. Come here.”

He tugs Enjolras closer, drapes both of his arms around his waist and rests his chin on top of Enjolras’s shoulder. It feels like there’s a furnace pressed against his back, slowly setting his skin on fire. He doesn’t try to move away. Not even when Gavroche starts making loud gagging noises behind them. Grantaire's moods are obviously mercurial. Or maybe he's always like this: angry one minute, friendly the next. If he were, Enjolras wouldn't know. They've only ever had about three conversations. But he's not complaining. He'll take as much of this affectionate side as he can get.

“Enjolras always has cold showers when he’s stressed out,” Gavroche chirps, watching them both with shrewd, calculating eyes. He ignores the way Enjolras scowls at him, continuing his line of thought undeterred. “He says it helps release tension in his muscles or some crap like that.”

“Watch your language, little dude,” Grantaire mock-scolds. “And stop distracting me, or else your pancakes will end up burnt and disgusting.”

Jean-Paul makes a face of mild horror at the prospect of burnt food, and Gavroche throws his head back and laughs. “I’d eat’em anyway.”

“But you wouldn’t enjoy them as much, would you?” Grantaire replies knowingly. As he speaks his warm hand slips under the hem of Enjolras’s shirt, gently caressing his stomach. “Hey,” he says softly. “Do you have another spatula? I’m too lazy to wash that one up.”

“Mm,” says Enjolras, nodding. “There’s a spare one in this drawer.”

Grantaire presses a smile against his neck as Enjolras finds it for him. “Thanks,” he says as he takes it, then steers Enjolras over to the stove so he can resume cooking without letting him go. “Gavroche, stop looking at me like that. You know the next one is for Jean-Paul. Hey, Enjolras, can you pour some mix into the pan for me?”

It’s weird and domestic, and Enjolras knows it can’t hurt to indulge in this while it lasts. Not when it’s for just this once. “Sure,” he says, and he does.

~ 

Grantaire leaves them with a plate of luke-warm pancakes to finish, a huge mess to clear up and smiles stretched across their faces. Just before he goes, he writes his number down on a blank corner of the newspaper and makes Enjolras promise to text him updates about the boys. “Just so I can be sure they’re safe,” he says, reaching down to ruffle Jean-Paul’s hair fondly. “I’ll worry about them too much otherwise.”

As always, Enjolras fights down the warm sensation spreading through his chest.

“Sure,” he says. “I’ll text you later.”

Gavroche glances between them knowingly then winks. “Hey, Jean-Paul, do you wanna come see the tractor me and Enjolras built together last Christmas?” he asks sweetly. “I think Enjolras and Grantaire need some alone time.”

“Don’t,” Enjolras hisses warningly, worried that Grantaire will snap back to being hostile as soon as they go. It’s no use, though. Gavroche is already dragging Jean-Paul away.

Grantaire laughs. “Well, he’s quite a character.”

“Yeah, he sure is.” Enjolras runs a frustrated hand through his damp hair. “At least, that’s one way of describing him. Personally, I think ‘pest’ is more fitting.”

“Aw, no, don’t be like that.” Grantaire pokes the corners of Enjolras’s lips with the tips of his index fingers until he draws out a small smile. “Gavroche only did that because I asked him to earlier. I wanted a couple of minutes alone with you so I could apologise for snapping this morning over the whole job thing. It was stupid. I’m sorry.”

Enjolras shrugs. “It’s no big deal. I mean, you were kind of right. I don’t really know you, so.”

“Yeah, I know. I didn’t mean it to come out like it did, though.” Grantaire sighs. “Look, I know this isn’t… I mean, none of this is what we usually do. But right now I really want to kiss you. Would you—”

“Okay.”

“Huh?”

“I said okay. You can kiss me. Now, tomorrow, whenever.” Enjolras shrugs. “It doesn’t matter when it’s you.”

It’s as close to a confession as he’s ever going to get.

“Fuck,” Grantaire breathes as he wraps a hand around the curve of Enjolras’s neck to draw him closer. “I swear to god, Enjolras, if you keep saying stuff like that without giving me any warning you’re going to be the death—”

Enjolras closes the small gap between them, cutting Grantaire off with a kiss. He’s not gentle this time, just desperate. Their mouths slide together all hot, messy and rough. Enjolras bites Grantaire’s bottom lip hard enough to draw blood and then soothes his tongue over it, drawing out a low, guttural moan from the back of his throat. Grantaire’s hand slides from his neck to knot in the hair at the base of his neck, pulling him in closer. Their tongues clash together clumsily somewhere in the middle, frantic and wet and so, so warm. There are no fireworks, but Enjolras feels as if someone’s set his insides on fire. Somehow, he thinks this feels better than any cliché ever could.

Then Grantaire draws away. He’s panting softly and his lips are bruised, kiss swollen. “I’ve really gotta go,” he says. “Tutorial in ten minutes and oh man, I’m going to be so late, fuck, I should—” he kisses Enjolras again, deep and unhurried. “I should really text them. Tell them there’s traffic or something.” He peppers a few chaste kisses against Enjolras’s lips, barely drawing away before he’s back again. “I’m going. Like, now. And I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah, okay,” agrees Enjolras, pressing one last kiss to the corner of his lips before pushing him away. He opens the front door with a shaking hand and steers Grantaire out. “Good luck at your tutorial or whatever. I’ll text you later.”

“Thanks. And thank you for letting me stay over. Good luck with the boys today,” says Grantaire. He lingers in the corridor for a moment, like he wants to say something else, but in the end all he does is smile and wave over his shoulder as he walks away.

~

Enjolras spend the rest of his morning making calls, filling out paperwork and not thinking about Grantaire. He doesn’t save the number to his mobile phone and then delete it shortly afterwards three times, or stare at a blank ‘new message’ screen for several minutes on end every hour or so, and he definitely doesn’t have to lock the damn thing in his top draw to stop himself from getting too distracted by it. The last part is purely coincidental.

At two o’ clock in the afternoon, the doorbell rings. “I’ll get it!” squawks Gavroche, with enthusiasm that can only really spell disaster. Enjolras puts his pen down and sprints for the door. Gavroche beats him to it and he’s grinning smugly as Courfeyrac and Combeferre shuffle inside. “Hey you guys. Long time no see. Did you know Enjolras is in love?” Gavroche asks as they walk through the door.

Courfeyrac’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise but behind him, Combeferre just laughs. “That’s old news, Gav.” He pats Gavroche fondly on the head. “I found out about that weeks ago."

“And you didn’t tell me?” demands Courfeyrac, looking scandalised.

Combeferre shrugs. “Well, I didn’t know for sure.”

Enjolras glares at all of them darkly. “I’m not in love,” he says. “Shut up, Gavroche. I’m _really_ not. And even if I were, it would be none of your damn business. We have more pressing concerns to think about right now. Like the two runaways I’m illegally harbouring in my apartment.”

“You say it like we _asked_ you to look after us,” mutters Gavroche, rolling his eyes.

Courfeyrac ignores them both. “So what’s he like?” he gushes. “Tall and handsome or thin and geeky? Combination of the two, maybe? I’ve never been able to work out what your type is. Not enough material to find a mean.”

“What are you even talking about?” asks Enjolras.

Combeferre sighs. “He’s just excited for you. Gavroche and I are too. Come on, don’t take it so seriously.”

In the room next door, Jean-Paul sneezes and then coughs pathetically. “Oh,” says Courfeyrac, brow furrowing. “I forgot about the kid. Is he coming down with something?”

“I’ll give him a quick check-up. If there’s something seriously wrong with him, we can call Joly.”

“Finally, we’re remembering our priorities. Thank god,” mutters Enjolras. “Combeferre, can you look after Jean-Paul for now? Courfeyrac, we’re going to start putting together a case-file on his adoptive parents. I’ve got pictures of the bruises they gave him already. And Gav, please stay out of trouble while we work, okay?”

Gavroche smiles sweetly and says, “I always do."

~ 

Predictably, Gavroche doesn’t stay out of trouble while they work. He doesn’t even try. And when the doorbell rings at eight o’ clock and Gavroche yells his “I’ll get it!” Enjolras feels his heart sink in his chest. He slams the file he’s carrying down and sprints for the door. This time he beats Gavroche to it.

Grantaire is on the other side looking worried. “Is everything okay?” he demands. “Sorry I took so long, my last lecture got dragged out because some asshole wouldn’t stop asking me stupid questions and I—no, it doesn’t even matter, I’m sorry. I’m just ranting. I brought you the freeze-pops you asked for. Here.” He hands Enjolras a bag full of colourful ice poles. “Is there anything else I can do to help or anything?”

“Wait, slow down a minute,” says Enjolras. “I’m so confused.”

Gavroche takes the bag out of his hand. “I’ll take these, thanks. Oh, hello Grantaire! I didn’t know you were coming over. What a pleasant surprise this is.”

“Yeah, surprise being the key word in this situation,” says Enjolras. “You text him from my phone, didn’t you?”

“How dare you accuse me without proof! Enjolras, that’s outrageous. I expected better from you.” Gavroche shakes his head, looking a shade too amused to pull off the hurt expression he’s going for when he cocks his head to one side, pulls out the big puppy dog eyes and asks, “What sort of scoundrel you take me for?”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow at him. “Do you really want to know the answer to that?”

“Wait—wait just a second,” says Grantaire. “Let me get this straight. Gavroche was the one texting me?”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t me.”

Gavroche snorts, immediately dropping the innocent act. “I can’t believe you couldn’t tell the difference between a twelve year old boy and Enjolras. Seriously, Grantaire. I can’t even spell half the words I sent you.”

“I thought Enjolras was too busy freaking out about Jean-Paul being diabetic and about to pass out due to his low blood sugar levels to text me properly. Which, obviously, he isn’t and thank fucking fuck for that. Jesus, Gavroche, never do that to anyone again. I was so worried. I thought I might be too late and Jean-Paul’d be dead by the time I got here or something.” Grantaire runs a hand down his face, relief visably coursing through him. “I could barely drive, I was shaking so badly.”

Enjolras sighs. “I’m sorry. It was my fault. I should have thought to check on him.”

“No, Enjolras, don’t start that. It’s okay. You don’t need to blame yourself.” Grantaire turns to him, offering a shaky smile. “Can I see him, though? Just for a little bit.”

Just then Combeferre appears in the hall, a small smile playing about the corners of his lips. “I’m afraid Jean-Paul is sleeping right now,” he says. “He’s contracted a slight fever since you left this morning. You can still go in and see him, just make sure you’re very quiet.”

“Thank you, I will.”

Grantaire kicks his shoes off by the door and pushes past Enjolras in the narrow corridor, making a beeline for the guest room. Enjolras narrows his eyes at the smug expression on Combeferre’s face, feeling uneasy at how scarily similar his smirk is to Gavroche’s.

“How did you know he stayed over?” Enjolras hisses as soon as Grantaire is out of earshot.

Combeferre shrugs. “Lucky guess. Is that the guy you’re in love with?”

“Yeah,” Gavroche helpfully nods a confirmation. “That’s Grantaire.”

Enjolras glares at both of them.

“Can you keep your damn voices down?” he hisses through his teeth. “He might hear you.”

“Okay, what did I just miss?” demands Courfeyrac, poking his head around the office’s door so everyone can see him waggle his eyebrows suggestively. “Where did the guy go? Do I get to meet him?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “He’s just here to see Jean-Paul. Shut up and go back to work.”

“That’s cute,” coos Courfeyrac. “He’s taking an interest in your boys and everything. Maybe this one’s a keeper, eh?" 

“We have work to do,” Enjolras snaps, then pushes past Courfeyrac to get back to his study. Right now, finishing the paperwork for Jean-Paul’s case-file is his first priority. He dropped it when he ran for the door and now it’s split open, papers scattered all over the floor. He curses quietly under his breath, scrambling to get them all together again. It’s hard when his hands are shaking so much he can barely hold them still.

He hears the door open softly and close again but doesn’t look up to see who it is.

Combeferre kneels down beside him, gently pries the papers out of his hands and begins to sort through the mess methodically. He doesn’t say anything for a long while, just organises everything into a neat pile and then fits them back into the flimsy ring binder they fell from. When he’s done, he looks up at Enjolras and smiles sadly.

“You shouldn’t feel this embarrassed about the relationship you have with Grantaire,” he says. “No matter what, Enjolras, you know that Courfeyrac and I are here to support you.”

Enjolras closes his eyes, takes a deep soothing breath and battles his temper down. “It’s not about you. The Grantaire thing is just—complicated. Really fucking complicated. And getting other people involved is only going to confuse it further.”

“Are you sure it’s not just you that’s overcomplicating it? You like him, Enjolras.”

“Yeah, and he’s not looking for anything serious.” Enjolras takes the file from Combeferre and sets it down on his desk. “At least, he’s not looking for anything serious from me. I’m pretty sure there’s another guy. He and Grantaire live together. It’s—complicated. Like I said.”

Combeferre frowns. “So you’re just—what, fuck buddies?”

“Buddies is the wrong term.” Enjolras laughs bitterly. “We have sex. That’s it.”

“If that were true he wouldn’t be here right now.”

Enjolras sighs and shakes his head. “He’s only worried about the boys, ‘Ferre. He’s a decent guy. Just because he’s here, doesn’t mean he cares about me.”

Combeferre looks unconvinced. “Have you talked to him about it?”

“No,” says Enjolras. “We don’t really talk. That’s kind of a part of the deal.”

“Right.” Combeferre lets out a long exhale. “Look, Enjolras, I’m your best friend. It’s not my place to pretend to know what’s going on with you. I just want you to be happy. If Grantaire can make you happy then please, for the love of god, don’t let him walk away from here thinking what you have is just sex to you.”

“I don’t think you understand. It _is_ just sex, whether I want it to be or not. Everything you think there is between me and Grantaire is just sex. We meet up to have sex. Whenever we talk, if we talk at all, it’s because we’re about to have sex. We both know there’s nothing more to it than that.” Enjolras sighs again. “There’s no point trying to make it something it’s not. It wouldn’t work anyway.”

Then someone clears their throat from the threshold of the room. The door is ajar and Grantaire is peering through it, looking lost and confused and a little bit hurt. Of fucking course it’s Grantaire. Enjolras should have known this would happen before he started spewing his feelings up and complicating everything. Oh god. Grantaire probably heard all of that. His face is slightly flushed and he’s biting his lower lip, obviously nervous. Just looking at him like this, vulnerable and quiet, makes Enjolras want to kiss him.

“Sorry to interrupt you guys. Courfeyrac sent me in to say goodbye.”

“You’re going already?” Combeferre fixes him with his gentle smile. “Why not stay a while longer? We were going to order take out if you want to join us.”

Clearly eager to leave, Grantaire shakes his head quickly. “No thanks, I’m good. Bahorel is cooking and I’ve got a tonne of marking to do tonight.”

“Okay. I’ll see you out,” Enjolras says mechanically, feeling like a slab of lead has settled across his chest. He takes Grantaire by the wrist and leads him back through the apartment. Courfeyrac and Gavroche are in the kitchen, unsubtly pretending not to eavesdrop. Even Combeferre lingers in the doorway, blatantly watching them. Enjolras sighs, grabs his keys from their hook by the door and follows Grantaire through it, closing it firmly behind them. “Sorry,” he says when they’re a decent distance out of hearing range. “They’re nosy as hell and overexcited.”

Grantaire smiles at him understandingly. “It’s okay. I get it. Bahorel is the same.”

“Oh.” Enjolras shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, trying not to wonder exactly how many guys Grantaire has brought back to Bahorel’s since he moved in there. He can’t understand how that isn’t weird for Bahorel. Doesn’t he get jealous? Just the thought of other people touching Grantaire makes something clench unpleasantly in Enjolras’s stomach. He knows he has no right to feel like that, but he can’t seem to stop himself. Maybe Bahorel just isn’t as attached. Sighing, he  pushes the matter to the back of his mind. “Well,” he says. “Thank you for coming tonight.”

“Yeah, any time. It was nice to see you, even if I didn’t help at all.”

“Thanks, Grantaire. It was nice to see you too.” Enjolras parrots the words back to him blandly, trying not to read too much into them. "Hopefully I'll see you again soon."

For a fraction of a second, Grantaire almost looks disappointed. Enjolras knew he shouldn't have added that last bit. He's clearly overstepped the mark. “Well, I guess that’s my cue to bid you goodnight,” Grantaire says, and kisses Enjolras chastely on the cheek before he turns to go. “Call me whenever you want to… you know.” He shrugs lamely. “Hang out or whatever.”

“Is hang out the new code word for fuck?” asks Enjolras, trying to alleviate the tension that’s suddenly simmering through the atmosphere around them with a stupid joke.

“Sure,” says Grantaire, playing along, but his voice is sharper than it was before. “Didn’t you get the memo? Hanging out and fucking are practically synonymous these days.” There isn’t a trace of amusement in his tone. “Anyway. I’ll catch you later.”

Then he leaves, walking through the door to the stairwell without glancing back.

Enjolras is left alone in the corridor, staring at the space where he stood just a second ago. An increasingly familiar nauseous feeling is clawing at his stomach, urging him to go after Grantaire and talk this through like real adults. He doesn’t follow it. Enjolras knows enough about the way ‘casual’ works to understand that talking could end in him losing Grantaire completely. “Stupid fucking _feelings_ ,” he mutters to himself under his breath, spitting the word like it’s poison. “Come on, Enjolras. Get a fucking grip.”

He lets himself back into the apartment and gets straight back to work.

~ 

Just over two weeks later, Jean-Paul and Gavroche go back to the orphanage. Enjolras’s apartment feels a little too quiet and lonely without them. Like they should still be there. When he says that to Gavroche over the phone one night after dinner, he can practically hear him rolling his eyes. “This is why I won’t let you be my legal guardian,” says Gavroche seriously. “You get attached too easily and then you’re too clingy for your own good. Call Grantaire and whine to him or something. I’ve gotta go teach Jean-Claude to skate.”

“Jean-Claude?” Enjolras asks, confused because he’s never heard the name before.

“Yeah. He’s a new kid. Got here while I was gone. He’s eleven. The other boys love him, so I figured I’d better give him a shot at being my second in command or whatever. He passed day one of his trial period well enough. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

Enjolras hums an agreement. “Sounds fun. Call me tomorrow, yeah?”

“I’m not making any promises,” says Gavroche. Then the line goes dead.

Enjolras is left wondering why the people he cares about the most are the ones who want him around the least. Almost automatically, he takes his phone out of his pocket for the fifth time this hour, stares blankly at the screen and debates with himself whether or not to call Grantaire.

It’s been over a week since they last spoke. Enjolras doesn’t even know how that happened. He just got so absorbed in organising things for Jean-Paul that everything else kind of faded out into the background. Now, one week later, he’s not sure whether or not he’s left it too late. Grantaire hasn’t texted him either. Maybe he doesn’t want to talk.

Enjolras sighs, puts his phone down and goes back to his bedroom. There’s nothing more he can do tonight. He puts his warmest coat on, grabs his keys and does the only thing he can think of. He goes back to the bar. 

~

He knows as soon as he gets there that it’s a bad idea. Grantaire isn’t there, for one thing, and tonight the whole place is alive and buzzing. It’s the start of everyone’s Saturday night. Enjolras had forgotten how busy this place gets at weekends, full of eager men willing to do just about anything for a good lay. One ambitious young man slips his hand in Enjolras’s back pocket as soon as he seems him, steering him towards the bar with a wide, libidinous smirk. For some reason, Enjolras can’t find the inner strength to protest.

Of fucking course, it’s when the barman places his drink down in front of him and the guy is plastered up against his side that Bahorel spots him. And hell, Bahorel looks murderous.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he shouts, pushing people out of the way as he storms across the room, heading straight for Enjolras. His voice is loud enough that about half the people in the bar startle around, looking a mixture of worried and excited at the prospect of a fight. The guy next to Enjolras backs up, eyes wide and terrified. He practically trips over his own feet in his haste to get away.

Enjolras downs his whisky in one gulp and turns to face him, steeling himself for whatever this is going to lead to.

“Bahorel,” he greets him coolly. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Barely even a second later his face is slammed against the countertop, arm twisted painfully behind his back. The barman is right in front of them. He doesn’t even raise an eyebrow at the violence, just sighs and says, “Seriously, Bahorel, you’re gonna do this again? Feuilly will flip his shit when he finds out. At least take it outside this time. I don’t want to clean up the blood again.”

“Whatever,” says Bahorel, yanking Enjolras upright so hard he feels like his wrist is going to snap. He ignores the curses Enjolras hisses at him under his breath, dodges his kicking foot and mutters a “Shut the fuck up or I’ll snap your fucking neck” into his ear as he drags him through the door. A few people cheer after them, but no one from the bar actually bothers to follow them. Enjolras doesn’t know whether he should be relieved or afraid by that. He supposes it doesn’t matter, really. Either way the outcome will be the same: brutal.

He’s not at all surprised when Bahorel slams into a brick wall. It’s very cliché. The rough surface scrapes painfully against his face, probably drawing blood. Bahorel still has his arms locked behind him. He can’t even fight back.

Completely helpless, Enjolras laughs. “What’s with you tonight, Bahorel? You’re acting a bit hostile. Got something to say?”

“You think this is funny?” demands Bahorel, pressed so close against Enjolras that his hot breath spills down the back of his neck, under his collar, curling down his spine. “Well, Enjolras. I’m not fucking laughing, Grantaire isn’t laughing, and you won’t be laughing either when I’m done with you, you fucking piece of shit.”

He yanks Enjolras back like he’s as light as a rag-doll then flings him into the wall again. Enjolras only just manages to turn his face away in time to stop his teeth from smashing against it. A second burst of semi-hysterical giggles spurt unbidden from his lips. “What is this meant to be exactly?” Enjolras asks, breathless. “Are you trying to lay some sort of claim on Grantaire or something? Because you’re too fucking late for that. Grantaire is—”

“Grantaire is fucking sick of your bullshit!” spits Bahorel, abruptly tugging Enjolras around to face him. His eyes are dark and angry, his hands curled into fists. Enjolras juts his chin defiantly, the way Gavroche always does, and hopes that, in the dark, Bahorel can’t see the way he’s quivering. “One week you want him so bad you’re here looking for him every night. The next, he doesn’t see you at all. Every time you fuck him you leave as soon as you’re done with him. What do you think he is, some sort of easy booty-call whore who’ll come to you any—”

Without thinking, Enjolras draws his own fist back and punches.  “Don’t talk about him like that,” he snaps coldly.

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

Bahorel spits on the ground between them and then presses a hand against one side of his mouth. There aren’t any streetlights near enough for Enjolras to see whether or not his lip’s split. He hopes it has.

“You don’t know anything about me,” says Enjolras. “Or my relationship with Grantaire.”

That draws a startled laugh from Bahorel. “So it’s a relationship now? Ha! Last I heard from Grantaire, you barely even talk to him. You haven’t called him. You’ve told him before that this is just sex to you. How, exactly, is that a relationship?”

It’s too close to home. Salt in the wound. All the other clichés that people come up with for when someone says something that stings. Enjolras briefly considers punching him again. It seems like the right thing to do. But his knuckles are sore from last time, and that barely had any effect on Bahorel. Instead, Enjolras grits his teeth and answers the question with a biting, “It’s complicated.”

Bahorel laughs again. “Doesn’t seem complicated to me. He’s your glorified sex toy.”

“Shut up,” says Enjolras warningly.

“Have I struck a nerve? What, does perfect Enjolras not like to be reminded what a fucking prick he is when he isn’t running around saving the poor little orphan boys or whatever the fuck it is you do in your spare time. Hm?”

Enjolras feels his jaw clench angrily. “I told you to _shut up_.”

“And you really think I’m gonna listen some jumped-up asshole like you?” says Bahorel, his eyes glinting darkly in the half-light, all fiery fierce and challenging.

He’s still standing right in Enjolras’s space, face set in this thunderous expression where his brows are knit and his nostrils are flared. It’s kinda scary, sure, but Enjolras can’t help thinking it looks comical from such a close range. He’s laughing before he can stop himself because, in that moment, everything about their fight seems so fucking _stupid_. “You’re not even—”

“Shut up.” Bahorel shakes him by the collar. “I don’t care what you have to say. Just stay the hell  _away_ from Grantaire.” And then he slams a fist into the side of Enjolras’s head. Enjolras doesn’t feel anything other than the dull thrum of pain wracking through his body. He slumps to the side, ears ringing. Feels his knees hit the concrete pavement. Then there are arms around him, trying to keep him upright. Worried voice. Ringing phone. The floor feels too hard and cold against his face as the world around him fades to black.

~

“—even if it were any of your business, which it fucking isn’t, you do _not_ have the right to do this Bahorel. He didn’t do _anything_ to you.”

“How can you defend him like that after everything he’s done?”

“He hasn’t _done_ anything!”

“Are you serious? He fucked with my friend!”

“Yes, and that was exactly what I asked him to do. I have an arrangement with him, for Christ's sake. Remember that part, you idiot?”

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t give a shit what you’re—”

Enjolras groans. “Can you both just shut the fuck up?” he says. His mouth feels like it’s been stuffed full of cotton wool. His tongue is heavy and his words are barely decipherable. “My head is fucking killing me and ‘m trying to _sleep_.”

He hears someone sigh. “Bahorel,” they mutter. “Wait for me outside.”

Then he feels something—maybe a mattress?—dip beneath him as someone sits down on it beside him. A gentle, warm hand starts smoothing his hair back from his forehead. He can’t seem to get his eyes to open, but even so he instinctively knows that Grantaire’s the one beside him. Maybe he can recognise his touch or something. But that’s probably not it. Before now, Grantaire has never touched him as gently as this.

“Shh now,” Grantaire whispers. “It’s okay. You’re safe. Go back to sleep.”

If his eyelids didn’t feel like rocks, Enjolras would open them to roll his eyes at how sappy he is.

“You say that as if you weren’t the one who woke me up with your _stupid_ arguing,” Enjolras grumbles softly. When he hears Grantaire chuckle, fondly and affectionately, he huffs and burrows deeper into the warm cave of blankets, pillows and mattress he’s swaddled in. “If you’re going to make this much noise, go the fuck away.”

Grantaire laughs properly then. “You don’t usually swear this much.”

“It’s not funny,” Enjolras groans back at him impatiently. His head is throbbing.

“Alright, alright, I’m going,” says Grantaire, sounding beyond amused. All of the venom in his voice earlier, when he was arguing with Bahorel, has drained away. He presses his lips to Enjolras’s forehead briefly and then stands up. The springs in the mattress creak in protest. “I’ll be out in the lounge when you wake up. Sleep well.”

“Mm,” says Enjolras. He’s fast asleep again before Grantaire is out the door.

~

Enjolras wakes up two hours later with no idea where he is or what happened to him. The room he’s in is shabby and unfamiliar. There are cracks in the paint on the ceiling. He sits up, despite his head’s throbbing protest, so he can looks around him. The floor is covered with books and he’s in the middle of a blanket nest. It’s so _Grantaire_ that he wants to laugh. But laughing right now would probably hurt. Enjolras isn’t in the mood.

He eases himself to his feet slowly, pads carefully across the carpet and follows the faint hum of voices through the apartment until he finds Grantaire. He’s sitting with Bahorel and some other guy that Enjolras doesn’t recognise. Combeferre is there too. He looks worried and uncomfortable, standing next to one of his doctor friends that he met at college, Joly. It’s not what Enjolras is expecting to see. His head spins. “What the hell is this?” he asks. “Some sort of intervention?”

Grantaire is up and by his side in an instant, leading Enjolras to the couch to sit down in the space he occupied until then. Next to him, Bahorel shifts sheepishly in place. He looks a lot like he wants to get up and run away. The frown on Combeferre’s face eases marginally. He’s probably reassured by the fact Enjolras can walk.

“Hello, Enjolras. How are you feeling?” Joly asks, kneeling down in front of him. He produces a tiny torch from one of his pockets and proceeds to shine it in Enjolras’s eyes. Black spots appear in his vision. Instinct urges Enjolras to flinch away, but he holds himself rigidly in place. He knows a test for concussion when he sees one. He isn’t going to fall into its trap.

“I’m feeling confused as to why you’re shining that at me.” Enjolras makes a face at his close proximity. It’s invasive. He barely knows the guy. “Also tired, and a little bit like my head’s gonna explode. Aside from that I’m fine.”

Combeferre nudges Joly and his vicious little torch to one side.

“He’s fine,” he says, with no small amount of certainty. “I can take it from here.”

Joly bites his lip. “I still think we should take him to the emergency room. Just in case.”

“No way.” Enjolras shakes his head, impatient, and the whole world spins. He ignores it. “No hospitals ever. Now. Is anyone going to tell me what the _hell_ happened?”

Everyone exchanges a reluctant look. “Um,” Bahorel starts, biting the bullet. Taking one for the team.

“Bahorel beat the shit out of you outside the bar,” Grantaire interrupts. “Because he thought you were screwing me around with some guy or whatever. I’m sorry he did that. He had absolutely no right to.”

Enjolras remembers that. “I wasn’t screwing you around,” he says urgently. Grantaire needs to understand. “I was at the bar looking for you and that other guy was just—in the way. I couldn’t be bothered to deal with him.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Grantaire’s voice is firm and steady. It hurts, just a little, that he really doesn’t seem to care. But there’s no point in being wounded about it. Enjolras swallows the feeling and gestures for Grantaire to carry on. “Bahorel called me when he punched you so hard you passed out. I guess he figured I’d murder him if he didn’t. We brought you back here and waited for you to come around. Once you did, I called Combeferre. Figured you’d want someone familiar around to take care of you when you woke up for real.” He shrugs. “When Combeferre got here and I explained the situation, he punched Bahorel. Then he called Joly.”

“I panicked,” says Combeferre apologetically. He's rubbing the knuckles on his right hand. They're slightly bruised, and he's bearing the purpling marks like they're some sort of trophy. It's a rare thing for Combeferre to take part in a fight. Despite how it sounds, Enjolras knows it isn't the punch he's apologising for. “That’s why I called Joly," he continues, confirming Enjolras's suspicions. "We needed to be sure that you’re alright.”

Enjolras smiles back at him weakly. “It’s okay,” he says. “I’d take an examination from Joly over a trip to A&E any day.” Judging by the smile that spreads across his lips, it seems Joly takes that as a compliment. Enjolras turns to Bahorel. “You’re an asshole,” he continues. “I’m glad Combeferre punched you. But I can sort of see where you were coming from, I guess.” He glances shyly up at Grantaire, who is perching awkwardly on the armrest beside him. “I’m sorry for being such a dick.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow at Combeferre. “Are you sure he’s not concussed?”

“He’s not concussed. Just apologetic. He gets like this sometimes.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Whatever.” His eyes move to the guy by Bahorel’s side. “What’s with this random guy?”

“Feuilly.” The man introduces himself, reaching his hand across Bahorel’s body, offering it out for Enjolras to shake. He has some manners, so he obliges. “You could call me Bahorel’s better half. I’m here in case anyone else decides to punch him.” At Enjolras’s confused look, he clarifies, “We’re dating. I run the bar he beat you up outside.”

“Wait, you’re _dating_ him?” Enjolras repeats incredulously. He looks at Bahorel. “I thought you’re with Grantaire?”

Grantaire’s eyes widen comically. “You thought _what_?”

“That you two are dating.” Enjolras gestures between them. “You’re always _together_ and _touching_ and—”

“And you came home with me anyway and never thought to ask?”

Enjolras shrugs. “I figured you’d stop having sex with me if you thought I had a problem with it.”

“Oh my god,” says Bahorel, slapping a palm against his own head. Enjolras is pleased to note that his lip is split after all. He wonders if it was him or Combeferre who dealt the punch that did it. It doesn’t matter much, in the grand scheme of things, but he’d like the satisfaction of knowing it was him. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Bahorel continues, oblivious. “You’re both so dumb and socially inept.”

Grantaire glares at him. “Shut up,” he says. “You’re not allowed to insult him again yet.”

“Since when was he allowed to insult me?” asks Enjolras, curious.

“Since you didn’t call Grantaire for an entire we—”

“That’s irrelevant,” Grantaire says, cutting Bahorel off. “Can you guys give us a minute, please?”

Combeferre, being Combeferre, quickly herds everyone out of the room and shuts the door behind them. Enjolras and Grantaire are left in silence. Grantaire takes a seat beside Enjolras on the couch and sighs. “Enjolras, you are far more trouble than I ever expected you to be,” he says, tired and honest. “I thought you’d be a quick lay and that would be it. And look at us now.”

Enjolras swallows thickly. His head throbs and so does his heart.

“I really like you,” he says. That doesn’t even cover half of it.

Grantaire sighs. “I like you too. I just don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

“Okay.” Enjolras stands up shakily. “I’ll guess I’ll go, then.”

“Oh, come on. You can’t be serious. Is that all you’ve got to say?”

Enjolras shrugs. “What else can I say? If you don’t want me, I’ll leave you alone.”

“I never said I didn’t want you,” says Grantaire. “Just that I can’t keep doing this.”

“Oh.” Enjolras looks back at him for a long time. He knows he has to say something to save this, but he has no idea what or how. “Well, for what it’s worth,” he says, slowly. “I think I might be falling in love with you.”

He shuts the door behind him as he walks out of the room. 

~

Enjolras’s favourite thing about Combeferre is that he doesn’t ask questions. He drives Enjolras home. Takes him up to his apartment. Lets him curl up beside him and cry on his shoulder. They haven’t done this since their last year of college, when Enjolras failed a mid-term. He feels kind of ridiculous for doing it again now.

It’s not until Enjolras is calm again that Combeferre says, “Don’t give up on him yet.” He squeezes Enjolras’s on the shoulder, comforting and steady. “He still likes you, Enjolras. I promise he does.”

“Thank you.” Enjolras dries his damp eyes on Combeferre’s woolly jumper. “I needed that.”

“Crying is always cathartic,” says Combeferre, unfailingly logical.

Enjolras nods. “I’ll see you at work in the morning.”

His second favourite thing about Combeferre is his ability to recognize a dismissal. Not all of Enjolras’s friends—namely Courfeyrac—have learnt that ability yet. But Combeferre has it down to a tee. He gives Enjolras one final squeeze before letting himself out.

~

He coils the phone wire around his hand as he dials, tighter than he has any excuse to. The nerves are making him feel nauseous and he can feel himself shaking, just a little bit. Calling people isn’t usually this scary, is it? On the other end of the line, he hears the sound of the phone ringing. He almost slams the receiver down in panic. But Combeferre has his hand on Enjolras’s shoulder, anchoring him, and Courfeyrac is grinning at him encouragingly from the other side of the room. That’s all it takes. He holds his nerve.

Grantaire picks up on the fifteenth ring.

“What?” he snaps.

“Don’t hang up,” Enjolras says, as a precaution. He doesn’t want to have to call again. Once was terrifying enough. “I just want to thank you for looking after me yesterday,” he continues. Courfeyrac shoots him a thumbs up. “And—uh. I’m sorry for saying what I did.”

“I get it, Enjolras,” says Grantaire. “You hit your head and I pressured you into saying some stuff you didn’t mean. Happens to the best of us. We can just forget it and—”

“No,” interrupts Enjolras. “I don’t want to forget it. I _meant_ what I said, Grantaire. But I didn’t mean for it to come out the way it did. You deserve better than that.”

“You—what?”

Enjolras bites his lips. “I’d like to take you on a date,” he says. “A real one.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.” Enjolras hesistates. He hates phone calls because he can’t see Grantaire’s reaction. Doesn’t know if he’s doing this completely wrong or not. It’s terrifying. He clears his throat. Forces himself to go through with this. Asks, “Do you have plans tonight?”

“No, I don’t.”

Enjolras twirls the chord around his hand again. “How about I pick you up at eight?”

“Sounds perfect,” says Grantaire. It sounds like he’s smiling. Then the line goes dead.

~

They started their relationship in reverse. Sex first, kissing after, and then finally, the first date. And somehow Enjolras managed to fuck up at every hurdle. But he’s not going to do that tonight.

He’s in jeans and a button-up, standing nervously at Grantaire’s door. He has a bunch of red roses in one hand, and he just _knows_ that his cheeks are about the same colour as their petals. As soon as he rings the buzzer, he wishes he hadn’t brought them. It’s too late to throw them away now, though. Seriously. He’s in the middle of a corridor and there’s nowhere to throw them.

Grantaire opens the door. He’s wearing tight jeans that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination and a red dress shirt. Enjolras hands him the roses clumsily. “Thought I’d start ticking off the clichés quick,” he says as he leans forward to press a shy kiss to Grantaire’s cheek. “We missed the sunset, so I can’t use that one, but I figured dinner and then a starlight drive would suit you fine. What do you think?”

“I think you’re an idiot,” says Grantaire, setting the roses down on the table beside the door. “I think you’re trying too hard, and I think that it’s adorable.”

He kisses Enjolras. It’s not soft or fond or loving. It just is.

Enjolras slips his arms around Grantaire’s waist, tugs him closer. Grantaire moans into his mouth.

“It’s been _ages_ ,” he says breathlessly. “I want you to—”

“Don’t say it,” Enjolras pleads. “Come on, Grantaire. We have dinner reservations at that awful Taco place I know you want to try.”

Grantaire slides a hand under Enjolras’s shirt. “Fuck that,” he says, running his palm across the dip in Enjolras’s spine. He pulls Enjolras through the door, slamming it shut behind him as he kisses him hard against it. “Don’t be boring. I’ve missed you. It’s been weeks since we had sex and, seriously, we can eat at Joey's Tacos any time. Literally, Enjolras,  _weeks._ Bahorel’s gonna be out all night, I made sure of it. We can order take out and—”

And it totally isn’t Enjolras’s fault when their first date goes wrong. This one’s all on Grantaire.

But the next day, when he wakes up with Grantaire’s arms circled around him, sleepy and content, he can’t blame him for it in the slightest. Not when everything around him feels so perfect. There’s an ache between his legs where Grantaire had pushed inside him last night, fucked him for the first time. It was hard and rough and _brilliant_. The skin on his neck tingles where he knows Grantaire has marked him and, in the half-light of dawn creeping in through the net curtains, Enjolras can see the scratches he’d left on Grantaire’s back, marking him too. As he lightly trails a finger down one of the thin red paths his nails left behind, Enjolras thinks absently that maybe he should let Grantaire take control of things more often. Not just the sex. Probably their relationship too.

As far as first dates go, it was pretty awful. It wasn’t romantic, or cliché, or anything Enjolras had expected it to be. He hadn’t learnt anything about Grantaire, apart from how fantastic his cock felt in his ass, and the only conversation they had was at two o’ clock in the morning, when they had an argument about which toppings to order on their pizza. It wasn’t anything special. It was just _them_. Comfortable and warm and familiar. And that, Enjolras thinks, was a thousand times better than anything he could have come up with.

Grantaire stirs beneath him, rolls over and squints up at Enjolras. “Stop thinking so noisily,” he says. “Some of us are still asleep.” But even as he grumbles, he’s leaning up to kiss him. He has morning breath, but Enjolras does too and none of it matters.

“I love you,” says Enjolras.

Grantaire smiles back at him like he made the sun rise. “Yeah, Enjolras. I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! please leave feedback if you have time, all that stuff like that really makes my day. also, feel free to say hi to me on [tumblr](http://dimestorepoet.tumblr.com) if you'd like to! i'm currently accepting prompts there for anything enjolras/grantaire related.


End file.
